Role Play
by La Fille Avec Le Stylo
Summary: Sometimes a little role play can be good for a relationship.
1. IntraMinisterial Discipine

"Your record is less than exemplary," the wizened old wizard said, staring down at the blond-haired wizard before him. "You have not displayed appropriate office behaviour in the past."

"Yes, I know that," the blond replied, "but I'm really going to try my best this time. Really."

"You have three counts of not showing up without reason-"

"I was sick and couldn't find my owl."

"One count of sexual harassment-"

"All I did was compliment her on her figure. She overreacted."

"Nine counts of not completing assignments-"

"I felt them to be unnecessary, and I was right."

"And finally, a remarkable _twenty-nine counts_ of being disrespectful to coworkers, particularly those of Muggle descent."

"Old habits die hard?"

"And all that was in the last month alone." The elder wizard, the Minister of Intra-Ministerial Discipline, glared down at the young Malfoy heir before him. "You have an abundance of excuses, Mr. Malfoy, but very little proof that you plan to change your ways. Now, the Ministry takes no pleasure in letting its employees go, and it is Ministry policy to attempt to relocate unsatisfactory employees to positions to which they are better suited within the Ministry, however-"

"However _what_?" Draco asked impatiently. "There are tons of other jobs here, what's the holdup? I've only had-" he cocked his head to the side, mentally tallying the number of jobs he'd gone through since he had begun working at the Ministry two years before.

"You have had four hundred, seventy-two jobs with the Ministry," the elder wizard said. "One with every department."

"There must be more departments than that," Draco scoffed. "I can't have had a job with every department there is."

"Well, there is one, however..." the wizard's voice was high with skepticism.

"All right, so send me there. One last hurrah before I get kicked out here!"

"We at the Ministry think you would not do so well in that department."

"I've earned forty-two disciplinary notes on my record in the past month," Draco reminded him. "I can't be any worse in this next department than I was in the last one, could I?"

Though he didn't say it aloud, the elderly wizard felt very deeply that Draco could, in fact, beat his past record.

"Fine," the wizard sighed, "if you insist. You will report to the Department of Records tomorrow morning at nine-o'clock sharp."

"The Department of Records?" Draco was shocked. "What? That place is so dull!"

"You asked for a last chance," the wizard reminded him scathingly. "Perhaps we have stumbled upon a case of 'be careful what you wish for'?"

Outraged, Draco could do nothing but stammer and stutter until, in a moment of cool maturity, he stuck his tongue out at the elder wizard and stormed out of the room.

* * *

><p>It wasn't that Hermione Granger, ex-war-hero turned Ministry-slave, hated people, it was just that she hated the people she was forced to interact with at work. The problem wasn't that they were stupid (which they were), inept (refer to "stupid"), and dull (though, after years of evil-wizard hunting, most things seemed dull). The problem was that she could do no wrong in their eyes.<p>

It was always, "Ooh, Hermione, your hair is fantastic!" on bad hair days, and "Ooh, Hermione, what a brilliantly written report" on pieces of writing which she knew to be only decent. For a girl who thrived on constructive criticism and competition, being put on a pedestal was absolutely no fun at all, which is why, one rainy day, she snapped.

"This isn't _amazing_, Melinda!" she had screamed, throwing a report at her secretary, a temporary intern who had been thrilled to be working with her idol. "There are at least three spelling errors in here, and I know you saw them, but you didn't even mention it!"

"Miss Granger, I'm so, so sorry," the girl had said, tears forming in her eyes. "I didn't want to offend-"

"Being an idiot offends me!" Hermione had screamed, throwing a vase against the wall. "Being a simpering fool offends me!"

And so it was that Hermione found herself before the Minister of Intra-Ministerial Discipline.

"Your behaviour is quite out of character, Miss Granger," the old wizard said. "I had never expected to see you in my office."

"I know, Minister," Hermione said quietly. "I'm ashamed of myself. I have no good excuse for what I did."

"That young intern has been psychologically damaged. She was extremely fond of you."

Hermione grimaced. "I'm aware."

"She was crying very loudly."

"I heard."

"It took the psychotherapists a long time to calm her down."

"I know."

"You threw a report at her."

"I did."

"Because she liked it."

"I _know._"

"And you threw a vase at the wall."

"I'm _aware_, Minister."

"That seems an extreme reaction to an intern telling you that she likes your report."

"Yes, Minister, I _know_!"

The wizard was extremely taken aback. "Miss Granger, I do not like your tone. You clearly have not recovered from whatever it is which made you react so violently to that poor girl in the first place, and I frankly do not think it would be wise for you to return to your previous department for the time being."

"Are- are you relocating me?"

"Please report to the Department of Records tomorrow morning at nine, Miss Granger."

* * *

><p>It had taken Draco about a year after that final battle at Hogwarts to stop loathing Muggle-Borns and Half-Bloods, and another year after that to admit that they weren't useless idiots. It took three months after that to remain in the same room as one for over four hours, another six to shake a Half-Blood's hand, and another four to admit that a Muggle-Born was intelligent. Despite all this progress, however, the odd "Mudblood" still slipped out every once in awhile.<p>

He never meant it cruelly for, while he still thought himself to be a bit better than Muggle-Borns and Half-Bloods, he had been trying very hard. He normally said it while teasing, a laughing "Oi, you stupid Mudblood!" between friends. Or coworkers. Or clients. Or perfect strangers.

It didn't matter; the point was that the Malfoy heir was attempting to be a better person, except being a better person didn't come naturally to him, and the rest of society just wouldn't leave him alone about it.

It was for this reason that Draco felt his banishment to the Department of Records to be completely unjustified. He hadn't meant to say and do all those offensive things, and he had had plenty of opportunities to say and do more, except he hadn't because he was _trying_. It takes a lot of time to re-write one's beliefs, Draco often thought, and people needed to be more understanding about that.

Angry, and with this thought in mind, Draco wrenched open the door to the loathèd Department of Records and slammed it shut, launching himself into the nearest chair and promptly beginning to sulk.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" an extremely cross voice asked from across the room.

He looked up to see angry brown eyes, an irritated scowl, and a mane of unruly brunette hair.

"I could ask you the same, Granger," he replied, his face mirroring the disgust evident on hers.

"I was told to come here by the Minister of Intra-Ministerial Discipline, and it's quite important, so I suggest you leave."

Irritated by the self-righteousness clear in her voice, Draco scoffed. "Leave the lying to the crooks and thieves, Golden Girl."

"Well, you'd know all about crooks and thieves, wouldn't you, Malfoy? And I'm not lying."

"Well, _I'm_ here because that very same Minister told me to be, Granger, and so I know for a fact that you're telling untruths."

"Who's lying now?" Hermione laughed. "What, did you invite your little girlfriend down here for a snog, and you're upset to find the room already occupied?"

Draco pushed away memories of his latest conquest, an irritatingly clingy little redhead by the name of Melinda. "Hardly. Why, jealous?"

"Did she dump you, then? Realize how pathetic you are?"

"If you must know, Granger, and I don't see why that would be, I left her. I refuse to stay with any witch longer than a week and a half, it's a matter of principle."

Outraged, Hermione could only stare at him, mouth agape.

"You look like an orangutan, Granger. A big improvement on how you used to look, mind you, so I'm not complaining."

"You're disgusting!" she shrieked. "If you don't leave this room within the next thirty seconds, I will hex you to Kingdom Come!"

"I will do no such thing," he declared, "until my business here is done!"

"I won't stand for this," she muttered angrily. "I am leaving, and I will owl the Minister later about my business with him." Her angry footsteps echoed through the room as she walked to the door. "Goodbye, Malfoy," she said, her tone poisonous, as she pulled on the door. "It's been a pleasure."

"I'm so very sorry to see you go," he shot back.

Except Hermione wasn't leaving. She was pulling on the door with all her might, but to no avail. There was no escape.

Angry, she turned around. "We're stuck."

"Just Disapparate," Draco sneered.

"Do you ever read?" Hermione shot back. "You can't Disapparate or Apparate inside any part of the Ministry, save for the Great Hall. It's a security measure."

Both were silent.

"Well, I'm going to take a nap then," Draco said. "Mind you don't wake me with your obnoxiously loud breathing, you-"

"What's that noise?" A loud humming had filled the room.

"Looks like a portkey," Draco said. "Over there."

Indeed, situated on a table across the room from the arguing pair, two identical portkeys had appeared.

"Well, this has been fun," Draco said. "But I'm leaving!"

Nearly sprinting across the room, Draco grabbed one of the portkeys and disappeared, Hermione hot on his heels with the second portkey.

Draco found himself in a bright yellow kitchen which he had never seen before, on the table of which sat a plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies and an envelope. He would have been very happy with this, except-

"You're still here?" Hermione shouted. "Is it my fate to have to put up with you every day for the rest of my life, or something?"

"Shut up, Granger."

"I will do no such thing! I went to that room for a meeting, and instead I find-"

"Shut up! It's for us!" Draco was holding up the envelope, on which both their names had been written.

"What's going on?" Hermione asked slowly.

"It looks like we're trapped," Draco said, opening the envelope. "Dear Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger or, as you will be known for the next four months, Mr. and Mrs. Smith."

"_Mister and Missus?_" Hermione shrieked. "What?"

"We're both here for sensitivity training," Draco said. "For the next four months."

Hermione snatched the letter from his hands and began reading it over, her eyes whipping back and forth so fast that Draco thought she might have been having a seizure.

"We have to live as married Muggles, interacting with and even finding jobs in the Muggle world. We have separate bedrooms, so the act is only for the rest of the world to see... Um, it says here that due to a magical suspension implemented by the Ministry of Magic and the Department of blah-blah-blah... Our wands don't work. They're basically just useless twigs until our four months of sensitivity training are up."

"My wand doesn't work?" Draco asked, panicked. "I need my wand! How am I supposed to survive without a wand?"

"I'm married to you," Hermione said, her stomach filling with dread. "We're married."

"Don't think I'm any happier about it than you are, Granger," Draco sneered. "I would have hoped my first marriage would have been to someone tolerably attractive, at least."

"Well, I have at least one advantage," Hermione shot back.

"Oh? And what's that?"

"I'm not an ugly, arrogant, Muggle-hating prat, _and_ I have experience living like a Muggle! Good luck, Malfoy."


	2. Unfortunate Circumstances

Their first night in their new, Muggle home had been less than pleasant. Words were shouted more often than not, and Draco had picked up his wand to throw a hex more than once, forgetting that his wand had been rendered useless.

The best method of surviving the four months, Hermione mused over her morning toast, was for the two of them to avoid each other at all costs. Shouldn't be a problem, she thought, we're hardly best friends.

Draco entered the kitchen and threw himself unceremoniously into a chair, greeting her by means of a grunt.

"Hello to you, too." Hermione took an abnormally ferocious bite out of the bread in her hands.

"Where's breakfast?" Draco asked.

"Go make it yourself," she laughed, her eyes mocking. "Or is ickle Draco scared of the toaster?"

"Of course I'm not _scared_, I don't get _scared_," he sneered, rising and making for the cabinets. "I'm not The Boy Who Wouldn't Die, hiding behind his friends and followers left and right."

"Harry did no such thing," Hermione said coldly. "He sacrificed his childhood, his happiness, and his life in order to save humanity. Don't you dare say a word against him or I will make you regret it, magic or no."

"He ended up living," Draco said irritably. "Oh, and all your friends? The Weasley twin, the werewolf, that freaky girl with the colour-changing hair? Didn't they die for Potter?"

"They died to protect people from the likes of you and your disgusting cohorts!" Hermione was standing now, her breakfast completely forgotten. "All those people who died displayed bravery and chivalry far beyond the perimeters of your comprehension!"

"Oh, really?" Draco asked, sitting down with a bowl of cereal. "How about all the Death Eaters they killed, was that them being all peaceful and kind?"

"They did what they had to do in order to protect future generations from slavery and genocide."

"They did what they could to murder my family and friends."

"Your _friends_ weren't being any more benevolent, I assure you!"

"My friends were fighting for what they believed in!"

"I didn't realize that exterminating human life was such a noble cause!"

Silence. Then, "Pity they didn't exterminate _you_, Granger."

Hermione stood up, grabbed her purse, and slammed the front door behind her as she left.

Draco leaned back in his chair and sighed, running his hands through his hair. A martyr without a cause, he didn't know how to handle the next four months. He couldn't kill the girl without being fired, and he really did need a job.

The problem was that his family's finances weren't doing so well at the moment. Somewhere between paying off officials to clear the family name and donating who knows how many Galleons to various charities, the funds had simply disappeared.

The changes had been small to begin with. A few house elves given away as gifts, the upkeep thereof being too expensive, the odd painting auctioned off, the good cutlery mysteriously disappearing. Then the big changes happened.

Half the manor was closed down, then the whole manor. The family relocated to the old groundskeeper's hut, which was smaller and easier to manage. His mother took to doing laundry, his father to fixing up the hut, despite the fact that both tasks had always been completed by servants in the past. All the artwork was sold, along with all the rare novels and all the antique furniture. The manor was suddenly a hollow shell, all the glory it had previously contained sold to the highest bidder. Faster than he could say "Snitch," Draco had found himself heir to nothing but a tarnished name.

He was bitter, yes, but he also understood that it was his duty to rebuild the family fortune and name, and he was willing to go to any length to make that happen. Including, if it was required, putting up with Granger for four, unbearably long months.

Tired of thinking about his unfortunate circumstances, Draco pushed away his bowl of soggy cereal and rose, determined to explore the house he was now confined to.

His bedroom was small, big enough only for a paltry wardrobe, a twin-sized bed, and a small desk. Everything was in terrible condition, and everything smelt faintly of dirt. It was connected to Hermione's room (which was identical to his) by a small bathroom with worn linoleum floors, a cracked porcelain sink, a shower with poor water pressure, and a toilet which looked one flush away from destruction.

Beyond that there existed only the sitting room, which was occupied by an unfortunate number of doilies and armchairs so uncomfortable it was almost impressive. Draco also found, in the corner, an ancient radio which worked exactly like a wizarding radio except that everything on it was extraordinarily dull instead of the mildly interesting he was accustomed to.

As far as he could tell, there was absolutely nothing to see or do in his prison. There were two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, a sitting room, and no form of entertainment to be found in any of them. Disgruntled, he headed out the back door, into the pathetic excuse for a garden which he had been supplied with.

Two plastic folding chairs. Three wilted flowers. One bush which appeared never to have meet pruning shears. A dilapidated shed.

Draco sighed angrily, kicking at the brown grass. "I hate life," he muttered. "I hate this place, and I hate Granger, and I hate the Ministry, and I hate life."

He sat dejectedly in one of the cheap chairs, thinking back to the lush gardens he had had access to at the manor. He had never spent much time in the garden there, and he was regretting it. What he would have given to see all those rare flowers, the towering shrubberies, and the ancient oak trees, if only one more time!

Instead he was left with this pathetic patch of dead grass and little else.

He pulled himself to his feet and began his walk toward the shed, determined to finish his exploration of the property. Closing the door behind him, he found himself in what appeared to have once been a recreation room, though all evidence suggested that it had been a long time since it had seen any form of recreation.

A thick layer of dust coated half a pool table, a broken pool cue, and a shelf on which sat seven books. A quick investigation found them to be old romance novels by some Austen person and a few Brontës. Less than impressed but aching for distraction, Draco pulled one off the shelf at random and returned to the sorry little house.

Draco was not fond of reading, and this book was not improving his opinion on the past time. The characters were simpering and dull, the plot clichéd and predictable. He couldn't help but think that, had he been in Mr. Darcy's place, he would simply have killed the entire Bennet family, if only not to have to deal with them. That Elizabeth was impertinent, self- righteous, uncouth and, perhaps most horrific of all, quite poor.

Disgusted with his choice in literature, Draco stalked into the kitchen, determined to create for himself something edible.

He had been staring at the stove for a good forty minutes when he heard the snide remark from the doorway.

"Look at that. Draco Malfoy, bested by a stove."

"Shut up, Granger."

"Oh, I'm sorry, was I interrupting you? You did look terribly busy, I should have known."

Draco closed his eyes, willing himself not to crack. "I'm just trying to work this out, Granger."

"You're pathetic! You can't even use a stove!"

"Leave me be, Granger."

"Oh, sure, of course. Here's a hint, though; commanding it to do as you wish won't work. They're very stubborn creatures, stoves."

"Granger, leave. Now."

"All those years of training, and here he stands, rendered speechless by the complexity of cooking!"

"Has it ever occurred to you," Draco shouted, turning around to face Hermione, "that this is all completely new to me? I've never had to cook. Scoff if you must, but I wasn't raised in such a way that I know how to do this. And I've never had to live without magic, so this is all very strange for me. I know you were raised by Muggles, but I wasn't, and I have no idea what to do in their world or with their technology. You harass me for being so bigoted, but you're being no better, mocking me when I'm stuck in a world which I know absolutely nothing about, with all my defenses taken away from me. I've been ripped from my world and plunged into this place, and it's all new, so excuse me if I'm struggling with cooking. You were completely at a loss when you first joined the wizarding world, and you got mad whenever someone made a joke about you not knowing anything, and now you're doing the same thing to me. I'm trying here, Granger, but if you don't have a little patient, so help me God-"

He cut off, not sure what he could do if she weren't patient which wouldn't result in imprisonment.

"I'm... I didn't think of it in that way, Malfoy," Hermione said, her voice tight. "I will try to be more understanding in the future."

Malfoy simply glared at her, waiting for her to make the next move.

"It works like this," she said, walking across the room and turning the stovetop on. "Then you take this, the frying pan, and put the food you want cooked in it."

"I see," Draco said, watching as Hermione cracked two eggs into the pan, mentally taking note of his she hit the egg on the side and poured the contents in, not including any of the shell.

The two stood in awkward silence as the eggs began to solidify in the pan.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," Hermione said at last, her expression heartbreakingly regretful.

"Good."


	3. Thunder

Draco was shocked to discover that Hermione's cooking was edible. So shocked that he accidentally said, "Mmm."

"You like the eggs?" Hermione asked.

"I didn't say that."

"Oh, you just... it sounded like you did."

"Well, I don't."

"So you don't like them."

"They're satisfactory."

The two ate in awkward silence for a good twenty minutes before Draco opened his mouth to speak.

"So, do you have a job yet?"

"No, of course not," she replied scathingly. "We've only been here one day."

"Well, get one soon," he instructed. "You need to earn money to support us."

"And what do you plan on doing all day, reading Jane Austen novels?"

Hermione had, much to Draco's chagrin, discovered that he was reading Pride and Prejudice.

"You're getting a job, as well," Hermione sniffed, picking up a forkful of eggs. "I won't be the only one contributing to the household income."

"And where do you propose I seek employment, Granger? I have no Muggle education, no history, no method of dispensing money, nothing! Who would employ someone who doesn't have any sort of paper trail?"

As if it had heard Draco speaking, the drawer nearest the pair flew open at a startling pace. Hermione was instantly on her feet, hunched defensively, and cautiously approaching the drawer. Slowly withdrawing a purple envelope, she smiled and sat back down, relaxed.

"It's from the Ministry," she informed Draco.

"Careful," he drawled, "it might just attack you."

"Pardon?"

"The way you went to get that thing, you acted like the drawer was about to start casting Killing Curses."

"It's good to be cautious."

"It's a drawer."

"Well, I'm in the habit of reacting that way when something happens without notice. It's saved my life more than one, if you must know."

Draco rolled his eyes. "So what does the Ministry want? Have we passed, can we go home?"

"They've created a Muggle bank account for us, as well as given us false educational histories. We met at Oxford, did you know? You studied languages, I studied political science. We both went to Christchurch College."

"Granger, I don't know what any of that means, as you well know."

"It means we both went to what is widely considered to be one of the best universities in the world, at a very famous college within that university, and you studied languages and I studied politics."

"You _would_ study politics, Granger. Just your sort of subject; dull, pointless, and passionless."

"Politics are fascinating!" Hermione snapped, defending her fictional field of study. "It's the science of how governments work, how big decisions are made, why our leaders make the choices they make, the method by which order is established-"

"It's dull," Draco sneered. "Much like yourself."

"It's better than languages," Hermione laughed, unkindly. "Languages are important, sure, but what did you learn at university? How to talk to people, but nothing to talk to them about? Oh, good choice, Draco."

"Languages allow us to communicate with and understand other cultures. If we didn't have language, humanity would be far more boring than it already is."

Hermione scoffed. "Oh, sure. Tell me, Draco, how many languages do you speak, how many cultures do you understand?"

"Five. Six, if you include English."

Hermione was speechless. She had not expected that many. "Which ones?"

"French, Italian, Spanish, Latin, and German. My favourite is French."

"That's quite impressive, Malfoy."

He merely nodded in response.

"So, why French?"

"I don't know, it's just interesting. The language is so wrapped up in the culture that you can't understand one if you don't understand the other. Like the word "sillage." It means the scent left behind by a woman's perfume after she leaves, and I can't help but think that no other language would bother having a word for that. French does, though, because the culture is built upon beauty and seduction, so of course they have a word for the lingering scent of perfume."

Hermione had never, until that little speech, heard Draco Malfoy sound even mildly passionate about anything.

"So, sillage?" she asked.

"It's pronounced see-ah-j, soft 'j' sound, Granger."

"Sillawjuh?"

"You're butchering my favourite language, Granger. Stop it."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione leaned back in the chair. "Well, I can only speak English, but that's enough for me."

"Maybe you should have studied languages at Oxferry, like me."

"Oxford."

"Whatever." Draco stared at the table, thinking about sillage. "So what are we going to do for jobs?"

"Actually," Hermione said brightly, reading the letter which had been in the envelope, "the Ministry's already worked that out for us. We're to report to the Café Rosé tomorrow at nine. Our employer knows our situation, and will be more than happy to show us the ropes of Muggle life, if need be."

"Convenient," Draco said.

"Quite," Hermione agreed.

"Well, I'm off the bed, Granger. I've had a long day."

"Yeah, I'm going to bed, as well," Hermione said, pulling herself to her feet and stretching. "We should rest if we're going to do well at work tomorrow."

"I can't believe I have to work in a Muggle café," Draco scoffed. "It's beneath me."

Hermione rolled her eyes and made her way down the hall to her bedroom, Draco following her on his way to his.

"'Night," she said, not quite able to add the 'good.'

"And you," he replied, equally uncomfortable with wishing Hermione a good anything.

Once alone in his room, Draco launched himself onto his bed, only to find that it was rock-hard.

"Perfect," he groaned, pummeling the mattress until it was passably soft. He curled up, ready for a long night's sleep, when-

"Thunder?" Hermione muttered. "Really?"

Since childhood, Hermione had been unable to sleep during thunderstorms. She was be no means afraid of either thunder or lightning, but the sound always managed to prevent her from getting any rest.

Grumbling to herself, she grabbed a book she had been carrying from her purse and stumbled into the hallway. Feeling along the wall for direction, she made her way to the sitting room, where a flickering fire cast ghostly shadows across the walls.

Sitting in front of the fire was an irritated- looking Draco, whose previously smooth hair was now rumpled and unruly.

"Evening, Malfoy," Hermione said curtly, nearly giggling when Draco let out a shriek and jumped to his feet.

"Don't sneak up on me like that, Mudblood!" he shouted, terror etched on his face.

Hermione flinched at the sound of the slanderous name. "Frightened of a little bit of thunder, are we, Malfoy?"

"I'm not," Draco said defensively. "I'm not scared of this at all. Bit of thunder? Not a problem. I'm not scared."

"Sure."

"I'm not frightened, you are!" Draco had desperately hoped to go his whole life without anybody discovering his fear of thunderstorms, and so it was with a heavy heart that he watched this plan crumble before his eyes.

"Of course, Malfoy."

Hermione was reminded of the old adage, 'caught between a rock and a hard place.' On the one hand, she felt extremely satisfied being in this position of power. She had, cowering at her feet, the boy who had made her life a living hell for years, and she desperately wanted to take advantage of that. She also felt, however, that to do so would be cruel, and she did not wish to sink to Malfoy's level.

Kindness won out, and Hermione found herself handing Draco a blanket.

"You look cold," she said stiffly. "Take this."

Draco accepted the blanket from her, catching himself just before he thanked her. "That's decent of you, Mud-Granger."

"Anything for you, husband dearest," Hermione said scathingly. "How could I not take care of a loved one who treats me with such respect?"

"Okay, when I have I not treated you with respect?"

"You just called me a- a _you know what_!"

Draco was extremely offended. "I did no such thing! I stopped before I said it!"

"You called me a- a _thing_ when I first came into the room!"

"That was different, you caught me off-guard."

"You shouldn't have to guard yourself against saying it, Draco," Hermione said. "It shouldn't be a reflex at all. Hate should never be reflexive." She sounded tired, and Draco realized, for the first time, that she looked it, too.

It wasn't that she looked old, or that she had dark circles under her eyes. It was the way she carried herself, slightly hunched, as if she were carrying the world on her shoulders, or perhaps preparing to be attacked. Her eyes, too, were all wrong. The sharpness which they had once boasted was extinguished, replaced by a dull weariness. Even her voice sounded tired, as if she had been repeating the same thing for far too long, to the point that she was beginning to lose faith in her words.

For the first time, Draco looked at Hermione and saw something other than Harry Potter's swotty friend. For the first time, he saw someone like him: tired, scared, and lost.

"Sit down, Granger," he said, gesturing to a space on the carpet just in front of the fire.

Hermione analyzed Draco for a second, trying to decide whether or not it was a trap. Finding no proof of that theory on his face, she warily sat, not taking her eyes off him as she did so.

"Relax, I'm not going to do anything out of line," he said.

"Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe you."

The two sat, staring at the fire and lost in their own thoughts. Hermione was thinking of home; of the flat she shared with Ron, her fiancé. People had thought her crazy when she had accepted his proposal, but she wasn't crazy. Not in the least.

Nobody quite understood their relationship. "It makes no sense," they would say. "She's so smart, and he's so... average. He's so rumpled, yet she's so put-together and classy. She needs someone with quick wit to spar with, and he needs someone to tend the garden with. It won't last."

Hermione had been hearing people say these things for a long time, but she always ignored them, because those people were absolutely clueless.

They hadn't been there when he had come back to she and Harry after he had stormed out. They hadn't been there when he had saved her from Bellatrix Lestrange with Harry. They hadn't been there when he had opened the Chamber of Secrets and then kissed her for the first time. They hadn't been there when he had held her close, absorbing all her tears after she had discovered her parents murdered.

All they saw was bumbling Ronald Weasley, clueless best friend to Harry Potter and fiancé of a girl who appeared to be way out of his league. They didn't know of the bravery he possessed, or the loyalty, or the brilliance, or the passion. He had spent so long telling himself that he was second-best to everybody that the world had begun to believe him, but Hermione knew it to be untrue. He was, without a doubt, the most remarkable person she had ever met.

He made her better, he made her smile, and he made her have hope for the future. He was more than Hermione felt she deserved.

As for Draco, he was thinking about a ball his parents had hosted two years before, for his twenty-third birthday.

His mother, always a wonderful hostess, had outdone herself. The ballroom in the manor had been festooned with golden orchids, and liquid gold had rained from the ceiling, disappearing just inches above the guests' heads. The feast was immaculate, littered with Draco's favourite foods from around the world, the platters refilling themselves magically whenever they were the slightest bit depleted. Even the candles were perfect; magically dimming or brightening depending on the needs to the guests nearest to them.

The guests themselves had been wonderful; the richest and most powerful wizarding families from around the world, the most beautiful girls known to wizard-kind, the most charming men. The conversation had been keen, the dancing elegant, and the evening splendid.

Draco wasn't thinking about that, however. He was thinking about a conversation with his mother after the evening had ended.

"I wanted to thank you, Mother. I had a lovely time," Draco had said.

"Draco, darling, it was no trouble."

"I know that to be untrue, you exerted yourself for this party, and it showed. My thanks."

His mother smiled softly, sadly, and put her hand on his cheek. "Oh, Draco, it was nothing. I would go to the moon and back for you, you know that, right? I would go to any lengths to keep you safe and happy." Narcissa, never one for sharing her feelings, now had tears in her eyes. Her voice breaking, she continued. "You're everything to me, darling, and no number of extravagant parties could ever begin to demonstrate how I feel about you. I love you, Draco. I always will."

"I love you too, Mother," Draco had said, pulling her into a tight hug. "And you don't have to throw me any parties or visit any moons to let me know that you love me, too. I know."

"I'm glad," Narcissa had said. "I worry, sometimes, that you don't."

"I'm going to bed, Malfoy," Hermione said, her voice cutting into Draco's thoughts and returning him to the present moment. "Goodnight."

"And you, Granger," he said softly, staring into the fire as she left the room. "I'll see you tomorrow."


	4. Hermione's Unlikely Champion

"Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I presume?" a bubbly thirty-something with a shock of bright red hair asked.

"Um, yes," Hermione said, nervously glancing around the café in which she and Draco were standing. "And you are... our boss?"

"Boss and key to the Muggle world," the woman winked. "Sadie McLeod, just call me Sadie. This is my café. It's pretty much like wizarding cafés, but with less magic and no frogs."

"Sadie," Draco began hesitantly, "if you don't mind my asking, if you're a witch, why do you live in the Muggle world?"

"I'm a squib," Sadie said brightly, missing the quick look of disgust and shock which crossed Draco's face.

"Oh, that's fascinating!" Hermione said. "I studied magical genetic anomalies for a few years after leaving Hogwarts, and I must say that squibs are extraordinary-"

"And once again, Granger, you demonstrate that you were raised by wolves who never taught you any manners whatsoever," Draco drawled. "You just called Sadie here an anomaly," he clarified, after seeing Hermione's confused face. "Perhaps, instead of treating her like a case study, we should treat her like a human being."

Draco was very impressed with himself. He was repulsed by Sadie, of course, as anybody worth their weight in Galleons knew that squibs were the untouchables of the wizarding world. That being said, he had caught Saint Granger being horrifically unkind. Draco felt as if he deserved an award of some sort.

"Oh, no, it's fine," Sadie laughed. "I've studied it myself, of course, and I agree that it is an amazing occurrence. Did you happen to read Professor Highears' report on the distribution of magical talent between siblings?"

"Oh, I did, and I thought it was phenomenal!" Hermione gushed. "Such a breakthrough, I could hardly put it down!"

The two women walked off excitedly discussing genetics, leaving Draco thoroughly disgruntled. It was just his luck that Granger would insult squibs in front of the one squib who didn't care.

"Sorry," he said loudly, walking quickly to catch up, "but aren't we supposed to be doing a job of some sort?"

"Oh, yes," Sadie said, interrupting Hermione's thoughts on the probability of String Theory. "So sorry, Hermione, but Draco's right. We really should get started." Draco smirked at Hermione, who stared back at him quizzically, unaware that Draco considered this a great victory.

"Draco," Sadie continued, "you're going to be trained as a barista, as you aren't familiar with Muggle money. Hermione, you'll be on till, as well as secondary barista duties."

"Barista?" Draco asked snidely. "Sounds like a job for a woman."

"It means that you get to make fancy coffee for Muggles," Hermione told him. "And you have to do whatever they say and make it any way they want."

Draco recoiled. "Surely that isn't true! I'm no servant!"

"It isn't a servant thing," Sadie explained calmly. "But Hermione is right, you will be making cappuccinos and the like. Hermione, have you ever worked in a shop?"

"Yes, I worked at Top Shop for a few summers while I was still in school."

"Perfect! Then you know how tills work, I'll just teach you the finer points of these particular ones. Draco, help yourself to a cookie and take a seat, I'll be back to teach you how to make drinks in a moment."

Draco watched as the two witches left and then grabbed two cookies instead of one, another private victory. He didn't know when he had become this childish, but he knew that the sense of satisfaction which came with stealing an extra cookie was sublime.

It irritated him that Hermione and Sadie were getting along so well, and that his every attempt to get Hermione in trouble had either backfired or fallen flat on its face.

Look that them over there, he thought to himself, laughing away like best friends. He unconsciously crushed a cookie in his hand, glaring at the women.

Sadie caught him staring and summoned him over. "Draco, I'm going to teach you how to make drinks now. Hermione, dear, take anything you'd like. There are some newspapers over there, just make yourself comfortable while I train Draco."

"Sure thing, Sadie," Hermione smiled.

"You listen here, Draco Malfoy," Sadie said, glaring at Draco after Hermione had left them. "I know exactly your type, and you should know that this behaviour will not be tolerated."

Draco was so shocked, he forgot to lie. "I didn't asked to be here, squib!"

"You're here because the Ministry thinks you need to be acclimatized to society and broken of all your old habits. I've seen your records, and even before I had, your reputation precedes you. Attempting to needlessly harm Hermione's reputation and get her in trouble with me will not be tolerated, and neither will prejudiced and cruel remarks."

"I haven't said anything!" Draco said crossly.

"Not aloud, but then most things don't need to be said aloud to be heard."

"Oh, so now we're being pseudo-intellectual?" Draco rolled his eyes. "What are you even talking about?"

"I'm a squib, Draco," Sadie said harshly, and Draco couldn't stop the disgust which briefly distorted his figures. "Don't think I haven't heard every mean thing you're thinking, seen every repulsed reaction in the book, or had to protect myself from every sort of attack which you might be planning."

"I'm not-"

"I feel you should know that I have dealt with worse than you before, Draco, and I will deal with worse again, and every time I will come out on top. Do not try to harm either myself or Miss Granger, or you will have earned yourself a formidable enemy."

"It's not-"

"I don't know what Hermione did to get here, but I know that you are one of the most disgusting creatures to walk this earth, and that I- and the rest of the magical community with me- will not allow you to harm her. You have been warned."

"Look, I'm not trying to be _bad_, or anything, I just don't know where to start-"

"Start by learning some respect."

That night, sitting and eating in silence at the kitchen table with Hermione, Draco felt ashamed. He had been terrified of that squib, like a first-year in a classroom with Severus Snape. He knew, however, that he would not be stepping a toe out of line with Sadie around. Magical or not, she had scared into him a begrudging admiration.

Draco sighed loudly, and glanced up to see Hermione staring at him, her eyes full of mistrust.

In a moment of startling maturity, Draco accepted responsibility for that mistrust, and almost came close to feeling repentant for it.

"Sorry," he said, the word coming out harsher than he had anticipated.

"Bit late."

"I meant sorry for sighing so loudly, I'm not apologizing for the past."

"Building up to that apology, then? Should I book us onto Maury, see if he can straighten this out?"

Draco ignored the reference, which he didn't understand. "The apology you're waiting for isn't coming, Granger."

Hermione scoffed unbelievingly.

"I'm not going to apologize for listening to my parents, or saying what I was raised to say. I'm not going to apologize for my history or ancestry. If you don't have to, I shouldn't have to."

"My ancestors didn't do what yours did!"

"So Muggles never kill each other?" Hermione was silent. "Yeah, that's what I thought. The past is the past, Granger, and I'm not going to apologize for who I was and who my ancestors were. So take notes, because this is the only apology you're going to get: sorry I sighed so loudly."

Hermione threw her glass of water onto Draco's face, pushed her chair back roughly, and left the room.


	5. The Theory of Everything

It had been a long day of work for Draco and Hermione- thirteen hours of work, to be exact. They had arrived at the café at six in the morning in order to open it, and were supposed to leave at two in the afternoon, however due to the untimely illness of another employee were required to remain until seven.

They had been living as Muggles for a whole month now, and little progress had been made in the way of their mutual cooperation. They had been up screaming at each other until two in the morning the night before, and the lack of sleep wasn't helping either of them in the slightest.

Exhausted and dead on her feet, Hermione's normally impeccable math skills were getting a bit bungled.

"You under-changed me twenty cents," a middle-aged man said roughly. "The coffee cost one-sixty, I gave you two, and you only gave me twenty cents back."

"Sir, I'm so sorry," Hermione said. "I'll just grab my manager, and she'll open the till so I can-"

"What kind of service is this?" the man asked, his voice rising in volume. "I come here for a coffee, a plain and simple coffee, and not only do I get served by a dim-witted girl who can't count change, but now I need to wait for some other person to come give me that change?"

"Sir, I'm sorry, but-"

"I should be sitting down, enjoying my coffee! Not listening to your pathetic excuses!"

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes, momentarily blocking out the harsh words and accusations being hurled her way. Draco, standing by the espresso a few feet away, was shocked by what he was seeing and hearing.

First of all, he could not believe anybody could be that rude. Secondly, he could not believe that Hermione was just standing there, taking it. Draco hadn't been able to say two sentences to her in their entire acquaintanceship without having his head bitten off or being slapped. Here she was, though, just standing mute as some nitwit stranger insulted her. Draco found himself transfixed and, oddly, irritated.

"Sir, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?" Hermione asked quietly.

A dangerous glint sparked in his eye. "You could give me your phone number."

"What?"

"You heard me, beautiful. Give me your phone number, and your boss will never have to know that you under-changed me _and_ disrespected me."

"Sir, I am not giving you my phone number, nor did I ever disrespect you."

"Doesn't matter if you did or didn't, gorgeous. All that matters is if I say it happened."

Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. "This is preposterous. I must ask that you leave now."

"I haven't got what I came for yet," the man said, laughing cruelly.

Hermione grabbed the coffee she has prepared for him, pulled twenty cents from the tip jar, and slid both across the counter to him. "Now you have," she said cooly.

Instead of leaving, however, the man grabbed her wrist. "Where's that phone number of yours, love?"

Hermione was about to protest when she found herself being interrupted.

"The lady said to leave," Draco drawled from behind her, "and I suggest you do as she says."

Now, Draco was not particularly muscled, however he was extremely intimidating. Something about the way he carried himself and the tone of voice which suggested he was not to be crossed made him an extremely formidable person to challenge, and the rude man found himself shrinking beneath Draco's glare. Still, though, he could not give up.

"And what're you going to do about it, boy?" the man sneered, trying very hard to look as if he wasn't becomingly increasingly regretful of his actions.

"Break your spine," Draco responded in a calm, even tone which sent shivers of fear rippling through the man. "Slowly, so you really feel it."

The man stared at the two for a moment before grabbing his coffee, scowling, and loudly announcing that he never intended to return to the café again. Turning on his heel he stormed to the door, which he slammed behind him upon leaving.

"I was perfectly capable of handling him on my own," Hermione growled, turning to face Draco.

"Fine job you were doing of it," he sneered. "Standing there like some idiot, listening to him shouting at you, not doing anything of any real value as he hit on you-"

"I was _going_ to do something, but you interrupted!"

"He was physically assaulting you! The self-reliant heroine ship had long since sailed!"

Hermione glared at Draco. "Next time, stay out of it."

"Next time, show some self-respect," he spat, storming into the back room. He was incredibly angry with Hermione. What was with all that not-responding-while-being-assaulted stuff? Why had she let that creep continue harassing her? Why hadn't she done something, or asked for help?

"Have you ever heard of the saying, 'The customer is always right'?" Hermione asked from the doorway. Draco shook his head; negative. "It's this Muggle thing, used in sales. It means exactly what it sounds like. If the customer wants his sandwich with extra pickles, then the sandwich has extra pickles. If the customer thinks the sofa is worth less than it costs, then it's worth less. If the customer thinks you deserve to be screamed at, then..." she trailed off, shrugging.

"Oh, please," Draco scoffed. "As if you'd get fired for defending yourself."

"It happened to a friend of mine," Hermione said.

"Right," Draco responded, clearly not believing her claim.

"She was working in a coffee shop, not as nice as this one, and a customer kept winking at her whenever she walked past. He just winked, nothing too major, but she was getting really uncomfortable. Anyway, she was walking by holding soup, and he grabbed her hand, and she spilled it on him. He reported it, saying that she spilled soup on him on purpose. She explained the whole story to her boss, but the customer is always right, and of course nobody had noticed him winking." Hermione shrugged. "I didn't want to lose this job like she lost hers."

"That's the stupidest policy I've ever heard," Draco said. "You mean that girls in coffee shops don't get to defend themselves when they're being shouted at or harassed?"

"Well, no, some are, but then others have bosses like the one my friend had."

"That's disgusting."

"Yeah, well," Hermione gestured vaguely, as if to say, 'C'est la vie.' She was silent for a moment. Then- "Thanks, Malfoy."

"Don't be so pathetic in the future. Sadie wouldn't fire you for defending yourself, she isn't that type."

Hermione nodded, "I know.

"It's seven," he said. "We can leave now."

Hermione smiled. "Yes, we can finally go home." Neither of them had noticed when they'd begun calling the house they inhabited 'home.' It had simply started happening at some point, and neither had bothered to correct themselves, because the house was, in fact, becoming their home.

"I don't feel like cooking tonight," Draco said.

"Neither do I."

"Good, we'll starve. Fun."

"No, we can do take-out," Hermione said. "I think there's a pretty decent burger joint around here."

"Take-what?" Draco asked.

"It means we buy the food and bring it home with us to eat. Or we could do delivery, I saw a pizza place nearby."

"What's delivery?"

"I'll explain it on the way home."

Half an hour later, Hermione and Draco were sitting at their kitchen table, stuffing their faces with pizza.

"I've never had pizza like this," Draco said. "This isn't what pizza's like in Italy."

"No, this is like... Americanized pizza."

"I like it," Draco decided, pulling another slice from the pie.

"It's a Muggle thing," Hermione told him. "Muggles came up with pizza, not wizards."

"Doesn't make it less good."

"Very true," Hermione said, and the two finished their meal in silence.

* * *

><p>Draco woke up the next morning feeling refreshed, which he hadn't felt in a long time. He was finally getting used to his new bed, he didn't have to work that day and thus had indulged in a much-needed sleeping-in, and to top it all off he hadn't fought with Hermione the night before. The day was looking up.<p>

Yawning, he stumbled into the kitchen, to find Hermione in there talking to the phone. She had explained the basics of it to him the night before, but he still didn't understand it.

"No, Ron," she was saying, "I'm not allowed to tell you where I am. Ministry rules. Well, that's... No, certainly not! It's just a cover, we don't actually have to do... Ron, don't be foolish, you know I'm not that type... No, I'm not in danger, he's actually been quite good... He helped me out with a bad customer the other day... What's that? Oh, shouted at me for a bit, bugged me for my phone number... Yes, he stepped in and made the customer go away... Perhaps he isn't all bad, Ron. Have you considered that? ... All right, I love you, too. Bye, now!"

"Interesting conversation?" Draco asked. Hermione spun around, wide-eyed.

"Malfoy! I didn't hear you come in! Yeah, just catching up with Ron."

"And how is Weaselby doing this fine morning?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and ignored the old nickname. "He's doing quite well, thanks. How're you?"

"Surprisingly good," Draco said, his voice more peaceful than she had ever heard it.

"Why is that surprising?"

"I thought I might be more stressed, but I'm getting used to this whole Muggle-life thing."

"Why would you be stressed?"

"Well, this is still all new for me, really. It's only been a month since I started this whole new life."

"What part are you finding the hardest?"

Draco snorted with laughter. "What is this, Granger, a psychoanalysis? I feel good this morning, don't ruin it."

"Sorry."

"What are you having for breakfast?"

"I already had some bacon. There's some left in the pan."

Draco sauntered over to the pan, in which the bacon was still sizzling. He piled bacon onto his plate, plunged his fork into the pile, and promptly wolfed down half the plate in a matter of seconds.

"You know," he said after swallowing a particularly large mouthful of food, "I would've thought that all cooking done without magic would be awful, but you manage it pretty well. Your food is consistently edible."

"I'm touched," Hermione laughed, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, come on, you know what I mean," Draco said.

"Yeah, I do. Now eat your breakfast."

Draco quickly finished off his bacon and walked his plate over to the dishwasher. "You know, it's actually impressive what Muggles have managed to do without magic. Their society is a bit more advanced than I had anticipated."

"Oh, yes," Hermione agreed. "Muggle technology is remarkable. Did you know that the rate at which their technology advances is exponentially higher than the rate at which wizarding technology advances? They're quite remarkable."

"Hey now," Draco said defensively, "wizard technology is extremely impressive."

"All I'm saying is that if Muggles want to talk to each other in real-time, they only have to pick up the phone or go online, not stick their heads in a fire," Hermione laughed.

"They can't Apparate or Disapparate, though," Draco said smugly.

"Actually-"

"No, don't tell me they've figured it out!"

"Well, Japanese and Australian Muggle scientists recently achieved quantum teleportation of photons, so Muggles are on their way."*

"What does any of that mean?"

"It just means that Muggles don't call it Apparation and Disapparation, they call is teleportation, and they're getting there."

"So Muggles can do magic?"

Hermione laughed. "It's even better. See, with a lot of magic, wizard-kind doesn't know how it works. All they know is that, if they twist around while thinking about Mexico, they'll end up in Mexico. Magic- and most of its uses- existed before wizards learned about it, and they just kind of stumbled upon it. With Muggles, though, they create all of their own innovations and technologies, it's never done for them. They're the most brilliant, amazing species. Wizards had their magical world handed to them pre-made on a silver platter, but Muggles went out and built a magical world for themselves using only their intelligence."

"You make them sound like heroes."

"They aren't," Hermione admitted. "They've made a lot of mistakes in the past. They are brilliant, though."

"More brilliant than wizards?"

"Yes."

"More brilliant than Dumbledore?"

Hermione smiled. "Most of them, no. Some of them are, though."

"Like who?" Draco asked incredulously. "I thought he was the most brilliant person ever, or something!"

"Well, I'd argue that Stephen Hawking is smarter than Dumbledore," Hermione explained.

"Who's he?"

"Well, he came up with quantum gravity. He's a genius."

"What the hell is quantum gravity?"

"It's... well, it's very complicated, but it's basically quantum mechanics and general relativity brought together by one formula." Draco looked very confused. "There's this idea in Muggle science called the Theory of Everything. Basically, Muggles have found that the universe works on four basic functions: gravitation, strong interaction, weak interaction, and electromagnetism. The latter three have all been connected by science, and they make up quantum mechanics. The Theory of Everything is a theory which says that quantum mechanics and gravitation can be linked mathematically, by a formula. It's related to String Theory."

Draco's mind was spinning. "String Theory?"

"It's this theory about how the universe was formed, but it kind of relies on the Theory of Everything."

"How?"

"No offense, but if I took the time to explain it all properly, you wouldn't understand. Basically, everything is made of atoms, and the smallest parts of atoms are actually these tiny, oscillating strings. These strings might just be made up of the four fundamental functions, and can basically change to form everything in the entire universe. Also, incidentally, it could mean that the fundamental functions are all the same thing, which is basically the God Particle theory all summed up."

Draco couldn't speak for a good five minutes, trying to process it all. "So the world is made of tiny strings?"

"Not just the world, everything in the universe. And we don't know if that's true, it's just a theory. A popular one, though. Also, keep in mind that I gave you a highly simplified version of all those theories; they're all much more complex."

"Why haven't I heard of any of this before?"

Hermione laughed. "Did you know that, in the thousands of years of wizarding history, not once has anybody bothered to ask where the universe came from, or what everything is made of? Not once."

"So why did Muggles bother to ask?"

"Because Muggles are always asking questions and moving forward."

Draco nodded, slowly coming to the realization that he may have been underestimating Muggles his entire life.

* * *

><p>*Note: This is, in fact, true. Look it up, it's fascinating. Actually, all the theories cited in this are actual theories, and are equally fascinating. Look them up, too.<p> 


	6. Cracking

Hermione was unsure as to how she had landed herself in a couples' therapist's office, seated next to none other than Draco Malfoy as a bald-headed old man with dubious credentials quizzed them about their supposed sex life.

One minute they'd been talking civilly at work, the next there was steamed milk as far as the eye could see and an extremely angry Draco screaming at her.

"So when was the last time you two were... intimate?" the therapist asked, his nasal voice grating on Hermione's nerves more and more with every passing second.

"To be honest, I can't even remember the last time we've had sex. Can you, dear?" Draco was smirking harder than he had ever smirked before.

"Maybe if you weren't so racist," Hermione retorted angrily, "we'd be able to get over our intimacy issues."

It was only after Sadie gave them the choice to either be sent back to the Ministry as having failed the assignment or go to couples' therapy that Hermione remembered that she and Draco were supposed to be married. So here she was, talking about her married life with Draco Malfoy, cursing the stubborn streak she carried which forbade her from ever willingly failing a project.

"Racist?" the therapist, Rob, asked. "That's quite the accusation. Why do you say this, Hermione?" Rob had insisted they call him Rob instead of Doctor Sommers, which was one of the many reasons that Hermione did not trust the degree which hung on the wall behind his chair.

"I was raised with a certain set of... supremacist ideologies," Draco told him. "I've tried my hardest to be a better person, and have mostly overcome these prejudices, but every once in awhile something... slips out."

"Well, Hermione, it seems that you aren't being understanding enough of Draco's background," Rob said sternly. "It takes a lot of time to overcome prejudices, and many people don't overcome them at all. Draco has made great progress in his life, but that doesn't mean his journey is complete, or that he doesn't need support."

"It wouldn't be so difficult if I weren't a member of the group he's racist against!" Hermione snapped.

"Which group is this?" Rob asked doubtfully.

"I'm- I'm part... Canadian! He hates Canadians!" It wasn't a lie, either. Hermione's grandfather on her mother's side was, indeed, Canadian. Whether or not Draco actually hated Canadians, she did not know.

"Draco, please explain these anti-Canadian sentiments," Rob said kindly. "Remember, this is a safe space."

Draco steeled himself for a moment, willing himself not to laugh. Finally prepared, he cleared this throat and began to speak. "I was raised to believe that Canadians are impure, unclean, uncultured, and savage."

"Why would you think this of them?"

"They went and bred with a bunch of other nationalities when they moved there, they bred with the _French_, they live in forests like animals, they all live in igloos, they all pronounce things strangely, and they drink coffee instead of tea!"

Rob leaned forward and patted Draco's hand. "That took a lot of bravery, Draco. Thank you for opening up. Hermione, please thank Draco for opening up like that."

"Thanks, Malfoy," Hermione said sarcastically.

"Why did you call Draco 'Malfoy,' Hermione?" Rob's tone was much sharper than was necessary.

"It's an old nickname, doesn't mean anything," Hermione explained hurriedly.

"In this space, we treat each other with respect. Draco here is making great progress, and you are ruining it with your anger." Rob's words were sharp as knives, and Hermione couldn't help but feel that there was some serious preferential treatment going on. Her suspicions were confirmed when Rob offered Draco some tea but blatantly ignored her when she asked for a cup.

Sighing, she leaned back in her chair.

"So, Draco, how have you overcome this hatred of Canadians?" Rob asked.

"Yes, darling," Hermione chimed in sweetly, "how _have_ you overcome this hatred?"

"Well, I spent some time in Canada," Draco began. "First in Toronto, then Montréal, then Vancouver. I found that Canadians act like normal human beings, except they're far more polite. I quite enjoyed me trip and, in some ways, even found Canada preferable to England."

"Right, which explains why you called me a 'Dirty-Blooded Canadian' the other day, of course," Hermione scoffed.

When Draco responded, his voice was tight. "I am trying to be a better person, but every once in awhile stuff slips out. It isn't because I still believe those things, it's just because I've been programmed to react certain ways when things of a certain nature happen. So when you spill spaghetti sauce on my favourite shirt and I get a little bit angry, it is a reflex for me to react with that sort of insult. I'm working on it."

Rob nodded. "So true, Draco. You are such an inspiring case."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's great, but how am I supposed to feel living with someone who is forever putting down my heritage? I'm proud of who I am and where my family comes from, and whether or not he's trying, I can't be happy in a place where I know I'm going to have to listen to that sort of racist talk. It isn't healthy."

"I think you need to be more understanding of Draco, Hermione," Rob scolded.

Draco quickly came to the realization that Hermione was only a second or two away from throttling Rob with her bare hands, and so he stepped in.

"No, I think you're right," he said, addressing Hermione. "It isn't fair that you have to live with that. Having someone judge you because of where you come from is, of course, extremely unpleasant. Being treated unkindly because of what your family is must be awful, and I will try to control myself in the future."

His words were reasonable, but his tone was all daggers. Every word sliced into Hermione, exposing the hypocrisy she had been hoping wouldn't be brought to light.

Luckily, Rob hadn't noticed.

"Brilliant!" he said, clapping his hands together. "I think we've made some real progress here!"

"Are we done, then?" Hermione asked, moving so as to stand.

"Almost," Rob spat at her, "but not quite, so sit down!"

Too startled to protest, Hermione fell clumsily back into her chair.

"Now, before we leave, I want you each to repeat after me. I-" Hermione and Draco parroted him- "_your name here_- promise to love and protect you, and to work through our problems as the loving couple we are."

Much to their credit, both Hermione and Draco managed this without gagging or laughing.

"Now Hermione, tell Draco that you love him, because I felt a lot of anger coming from you this session."

Hermione turned to Draco. "Olive you."

Rob and Draco each gave her a strange look. "No, I want you to say his name, make it personal. You haven't said his name once this whole session. And say it slowly, so we can hear."

Gritting her teeth, Hermione slowly repeated herself. "Olive you, Draco."

Rob tsked. "You're playing around, Mrs. Smith, by saying 'Olive' instead of 'I love,' but your marriage is no joke. If you're going to make this work, you're going to have to be genuine."

Hermione's eyes were ablaze with anger when she turned to Draco for the third time.

Pretend it's Ron, she told herself. Just pretend it's Ron.

"Draco-" _by which I mean Ron_- "I love you."

Draco smirked. "And I feel for you the same way I always have."

Rob beamed at Draco's seemingly sweet proclamation and then glared at Hermione for her clearly forced one. "I'll see you two soon. In the meantime, be sure to remind Draco that you love him, Hermione. You need to stop being so judgmental."

Draco began laughing hysterically as soon as they left the building.

"He hated you!" Draco howled. "He absolutely loathed you! That was great! Can we come here all the time?"

Hermione opted to walk away angrily in lieu of responding. Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she roughly wiped them away, not wanting to risk letting Draco see her vulnerable. Her whole life she had been treated badly by Draco because of her blood, and her whole life she had fought and faced death time and time again so the world could see equality, and what does she get? She gets told that her suffering doesn't count, that she isn't understanding enough of Draco's position and childhood. She'd had it; she was going to call Sadie and admit defeat. She could always find work in a different department at the Ministry and, even if she couldn't, work was never hard to find for one of the champions of the war.

Suddenly she felt herself being roughly turned around, Draco's hand dragging her to face him.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" he asked, irritated.

And then, before she was even aware of what was happening, Hermione was answering his question honestly.

"I gave you chances, you know!" she shouted. "I gave you chances in school to be nice and to be a friend, but you were always so bloody elitist that you never took that chance! I put up with your abuse for years and years, and I put my life on the line in a war which didn't have to be mine in order to achieve equality! I was kidnapped, tortured, I watched friends and family die in the name of peace, I had my entire world torn apart, and all because you and your family couldn't just accept that people are people, no matter where their blood comes from!"

Draco had never heard Hermione scream this vehemently, and so he did not know how to respond. This turned out to be for the better, however, as Hermione was not yet finished shouting.

"And now some crackpot therapist has the gall to tell me that I'm the prejudiced one, that I'm misunderstanding? I'm not the problem here! I put my entire life into helping the less fortunate! You're the coward, Malfoy! Not me!"

"I was raised this way," he reminded her, his voice low and furious. "I was raised to be how I am, and yes, you were very brave and I was not, but I'm trying now. I am trying to be good, Granger, but it is difficult. I am having a tough time of it, and if you could be so good as to be more understa-"

"You have no concept of what a tough time is," Hermione said cooly before turning on her heel and walking away.

"I lost my house!" Draco shouted after her. "My house, my staff, my family's fortune, my possessions, everything!"

Hermione turned back to look at him, her expression both pitying and hateful at the same time. Against her will, a single tear fell from her eye. "I lost my parents."

Her voice was barely a whisper, and yet Draco heard her. She sounded heartbroken, lost, frozen, empty... Her voice was everything a living, breathing human's voice should not be.

Draco opened his mouth to say something, but no response came out. Some part of his conscience was telling him not to fight her on this.

"But I'm sorry about your house," she added scornfully. With that she walked away, leaving Draco alone in the empty street.

* * *

><p>When Draco arrived back at the house, Hermione was already in her room.<p>

"Granger?" he asked through the door. "Granger, can we talk?"

He was met with silence. Sighing and leaning his forehead on the door, Draco willed himself to calm down before trying again.

"Granger, please, I would like to speak with you. Not shout, just speak like adults."

Nothing.

"Please."

The door swung open, momentarily upsetting Draco's balance before he righted himself.

"You speak," Hermione spat. "I have nothing to say to you."

Draco followed her into the sitting room, where she perched on the seat furthest from him.

"It's true that I was raised to be the way I am, and it's true that I'm trying to be a nicer person. I'm bad at it, I recognize that, but please know that I _am_ trying. I'm not just saying that to make people like me.

"Also, I know I've been awful to you over the years. You never deserved it, and you've never been as bad to me as you have every right to be. You even spoke in my defense at my trial, saying that I hadn't done anything worth time in Azkaban, even though I had watched you being tortured at my Manor a few months before. I don't deserve your kindness.

"I suppose what I'm saying is that I regret how I have treated you, and I am very sorry for all the losses you have sustained as a result of my behaviour and the behaviour of my school friends, family, et cetera."

Hermione stared at him, her eyes unreadable.

"I found them, you know," she said, her voice dead. "Mum and Dad. They weren't just murdered, they were tortured first. I found them in a dungeon in-" her voice cut out, replaced by loud sobs. Hermione found herself hunched over, weeping into her hands, finally letting loose the tears she hadn't allowed herself to shed since she had found her parents' bodies. She had wanted to be strong for them, for everybody. She had wanted to be a beacon of sorts.

"Granger?" Draco asked quietly. "Hermione?" It was the first time he had said her name in a kind manner. It felt strange. Neither good nor bad, only strange.

Hermione, however, wasn't listening. She was falling apart, her shell cracking to reveal a very broken girl.

Draco brought her a blanket, and she clutched at it like a life vest during a tsunami. Like it could bring them back if she squeezed tightly enough.

Finally, Draco's conscience won out, and he awkwardly sat down next to Hermione. Grimacing, he put his arm around her shoulders, extremely uncomfortable with what he was doing.

Hermione turned abruptly and began sobbing into his shoulder, too delirious with pain to register who, exactly, she was crying on.

Draco patted her shoulder a bit, not quite sure what to do. "There, there," he said, the phrase sounding more like a question than a form of assurance.

The pair remained that way, Hermione sobbing onto Draco, until the early hours of the morning, when they both fell asleep.

Upon awakening, Hermione found herself still curled against Draco's side. Cursing herself for having made herself such an easy target, she slowly slid off the couch and away from him.

Standing in their shared bathroom, Hermione splashed her face with cold water and stared at herself in the mirror. "He is the enemy," she told her reflection. "If you open up to him, you might die."

Standing just outside the bathroom, Draco found himself taken aback at her warrior-like tone and wondering just what it would take for Hermione to let down her guard.


	7. An Atrocity of a Revelation

"Granger, we need to stop ripping each others' heads off," Draco announced the next morning. "If either of us want to pass this stupid sensitivity training, then we're going to have to make an effort not to kill each other. Then we can move on with our lives and our jobs, and not have to deal with each other again."

His reflection stared back at him, appearing confident in the speech he had spent a good twenty minutes preparing. Hermione had just woken up and made her way to the kitchen, and Draco was ready to present her with these words, his version of a truce.

Brushing his hair out of his eyes, he strode purposefully into the kitchen.

"Granger, we need to stop-"

"I think it would be best if we called a truce," Hermione interrupted.

Draco gritted his teeth, irritated that she had beat him to the punch. Once again, she had somehow gained the upper-hand. "Precisely what I was going to say," he said, his voice nearly a growl. "A truce would be a good idea at this point."

"Yes," she said, taking a sip of her tea. "We'll never pass this sensitivity training if all we do is bicker. The point is that we learn to be more accepting, and that clearly isn't going to happen naturally, so we need to take things into our own hands."

"Quite, quite... any ideas on how to go about not hating each other quite as much?"

"We need to be able to have a conversation without turning that conversation into a shouting match," Hermione said slowly, "and that clearly will not happen if we're left to ourselves."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I- I'm suggesting we sit down to talk somewhere public."

"Like a- Granger, are you suggesting I take you on a _date_?"

Hermione turned bright red. "It's not like I'm looking forward to this, Malfoy, but whenever we're left to ourselves it becomes a mess, and having dinner and eating in public might just force us into being polite."

"I'm not buying _you_ dinner."

"I'm supposed to be your _wife_," Hermione reminded him. "Are you saying you won't buy your wife dinner?"

"You're my wife for appearance's sake, so when people ask why we moved here we can say we're a newlywed couple looking for a place to put down some roots. Not so I can pay for your bloody meals."

"It was just a suggestion," Hermione said, her voice bubbling with contempt.

Draco shook his head in disbelief and downed the remainder of his coffee. "Let's get to work, Granger."

* * *

><p>"Well, don't you two look happy," Sadie said, grinning widely at the sight of their irritated expressions. "What's the cute couple up to today?"<p>

"Granger wants me to take her on a date," Draco scoffed.

"And Malfoy refuses to sit down with me somewhere in public, somewhere where shouting matches are not tolerated."

"Granger refuses to accept the fact that she isn't my bloody girlfriend."

"Malfoy refuses to accept the fact that, if we don't complete this sensitivity training, we will both risk losing our jobs."

"Granger refuses-" Sadie put her hand up and Draco, in the greatest act of submission Hermione had ever seen, fell silent so as to allow the bubbly squib to speak.

"Hermione, go on till, there's a customer. Draco, could you please wipe off the tables? They're looking a bit dirty. I'll be right back."

They watched her retreating figure. "If she makes us a reservation, I swear to God," Draco began.

"Go wipe down tables, busboy," Hermione ordered.

Three minutes later, whem the customer (medium coffee, two sweeteners) was happily seated and the tabletops were all reasonably clean, Sadie returned from her office.

"Right, so, you two are leaving at two today instead of four, got that?"

"Why?" Draco asked warily, pausing in the stocking he had been doing.

"Because you have a reservation at-"

"I am not taking Granger on a date!" Everybody in the café paused, put down their drinks, and stared in shock at Draco's outburst. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

"You aren't taking Granger on a date, Draco," Sadie said. "You're taking Mrs. Smith, your wife, out to dinner."

"Why do you always take Granger's side in everything?"

"Because Hermione is here because she accidentally lost control once. You are here because you have chosen to be a complete bastard."

Hermione giggled. "Okay, so where is this restaurant, Sadie?"

"The reservation is under Smith at the Olive Grove restaurant on Main Street, five o'clock. It's the nicest restaurant in town, jeans are not permitted on the premises, and you'd be stupid not to wear your best."

"Thanks, Sadie," Hermione said warmly.

"Just try not to kill each other."

* * *

><p>Draco was highly irritated for two reasons. First of all, he was taking Granger on a date, and that simply was not right. Secondly, no less than three men had given him thumbs up since he had entered the restaurant, all of them having done so after seeing that Draco was with Hermione.<p>

Hermione, for her part, was not doing much better. Nearly every single girl she had passed had glared at her, and those who hadn't had been staring longingly at Draco. He isn't _that_ attractive, Hermione thought irritably. Much to her dismay, nobody else in the restaurant agreed with her inner dialogue. Even a few men were staring daggers at her now.

"Here's your table, Mister and Missus Smith," the hostess said, gesturing to a secluded table in the back of the restaurant. "And here are your menus."

Draco passed one of the menus to Hermione, who grabbed it as forcefully as she could, trying to release some of her irritation unto Draco and the menu. She didn't notice, as she did this, a small piece of paper come fluttering out of the menu, and so when Draco picked it up and began laughing she was extremely confused.

"What's the joke?" she asked snidely.

"I've got the hostess' phone number," Draco laughed, alarmingly smug.

"You've got-? No, let me see that." Hermione grabbed the paper, read it, and proceeded to widen her eyes more than Draco had previously thought to be humanly possible. "'If you'd like a break from your wife, give me a call.' This cannot be serious, she must be joking!"

Sure, Draco looked good that night. His suit was a stylish European cut which fit him perfectly, his shoes appeared to be more expensive than Hermione's apartment, and he had done something different with his hair, but to offer your phone number to a clearly married man?

"That's extraordinarily unprofessional," Hermione scolded, "and you should not be considering this."

"Who said I'm considering it?"

"Well... who said you weren't?"

If you had asked Hermione, prior to her dinner with Draco, what the most awkward moment of her life had thus far been, she would not have had a solid answer for you. Now, however, she definitely did.

"Wine for the lady," their waiter said, relieving them from the uncomfortable silence into which they had been plunged.

Hermione glanced at the glass, confused. "I didn't order any wine."

"No, the gentleman at the bar has sent this to you."

Draco and Hermione both looked over to the bar, where a well-dressed man about their age was smiling at Hermione.

"Could you please tell him that I'm here with my husband?" Hermione asked, glancing once again to the man.

"Of course, Madame," the waiter replied, scurrying back to the bar.

Draco was the tiniest bit confused. Why on earth would anybody buy Granger a drink? I mean, God, look at her, he thought. Her hair is preposterously frizzy, her body shapeless, and her face about as alluring as a dead muskrat.

"I'm going to go sort this out," Hermione said, gesturing to the bar where the waiter was trying to pacify the clearly riled man.

Hermione stood and walked to the bar, and Draco couldn't help but notice that every single straight male in the room had paused to watch her walking. And that's when Draco realized it: Hermione was a girl.

Her hair wasn't frizzy, she had somehow managed to tame it into curls which had been artfully pinned up at the back of her head. Her dress was either bewitched or he had been incredibly blind, because it was showing off some not-too-awful curves. And finally, last but not least, surrounded by all this candlelight and glowing with the excitement of an argument, her face was stunning.

Now, she wasn't classically beautiful, but she was still incredibly gorgeous in her own way. Her lips were a bit thin, perhaps, but her eyes- oh Lord, her eyes. They were magma while she told that man off for interrupting her dinner. They were magma and ice at the same time.

Suddenly- and much to his eternal disappointment- Draco saw Hermione as pretty.

Stunning.

Hot, even.

"How'd that go?" he asked as Hermione sat down.

"Well, he told me that I'm a bitch from hell, but he also mentioned that he'd rather die than have anything to do with me in the future, so I suppose it went well."

"Bravo, Granger," Draco laughed. "Now, I was thinking, about the fact that we can't go two minutes without verbally attacking each other... why don't we just start again?"

"What?"

"Let's start again."

"I don't quite follow you, Malfoy."

Draco smiled briefly. "I mean this: Hello, my name is Draco Malfoy, it's lovely to meet you. Who are you?"

Hermione scoffed. "You cannot think that acting as if the past ever happened will help."

"Well, acting as if the past _did_ happen is getting us absolutely nowhere, so I figure it's worth a shot."

Hermione eyed Draco suspiciously as he extended his hand once more. "Draco Malfoy, it's a pleasure to meet you. What's your name?"

"Hermione Granger," Hermione said, slowly taking his hand. "Likewise."

"So, what brings you to this particular restaurant, Hermione?"

"I'm having dinner with my so-called husband."

"And talking to a strange man who you've never met before during that dinner? Scandalous."

"Well," Hermione laughed, "my husband absolutely loathes me, and I him, so I figured it was time for a new beginning."

"Well then," Draco said, lifting his glass of water into the air. "To new beginnings."


	8. Dinner for Two

"So what do you do, Miss Granger?" Draco asked.

"Well," she began, still wary of his intentions with his sudden kindness, "I investigate illegal activities within the Ministry. Fraud, illegal accessing of the public's private information for governmental purposes, et cetera."

"Fascinating. Anything interesting of late?"

"I'm not really allowed to talk about it; the information I deal with is generally of a top secret nature. I work, in part, with the Auror division, but that's all I can really tell anyone who isn't directly involved in my work. What do you do?"

"Nothing, really. I've never had a permanent job."

"Really? Not even with the Minis-"

She was interrupted by their waiter. "May I start you with drinks?" he asked, smiling a bit too warmly at Hermione for the girl's liking.

"Water, please," Hermione said timidly, smiling weakly before staring down at the table.

"Same for me," Draco said, giving Hermione an appraising look as the waiter wrote down their orders and left them. "Are you blushing, Granger?"

"No," Hermione said, her face a remarkably bright red.

"Why on earth are you turning red, then?"

"Well, he smiled at me a bit longer than is perhaps normal."

"And?"

"And it made me blush."

"Why?"

"Because he smiled at me longer than most people smile."

Draco laughed. Loudly.

"Stop taking pleasure in my pain!" Hermione shot.

"It isn't that, Granger, it's just... Does being flirted with really make you that uncomfortable?"

"Is that what he was doing?" Hermione asked, her head snapping up into its regular, upright position. "Flirting?"

Draco was bewildered. "What did you think he was doing?"

"I thought maybe there was something in my teeth, and he was mocking me for it."

"No, he most assuredly thought you were attractive, and was going to flirt with you until you started acting all awkward."

Hermione was silent, processing this information.

"How did you not know that?" Draco asked her.

"People don't normally flirt with me, I didn't even recognize it," she admitted grudgingly.

"Men have been hitting on you all night," he told her. "God knows why."

She gave him a scathing glare. "Well, I didn't notice."

"That's really-"

"So what was it you were saying about never having a stable job?"

Draco couldn't help but smile at just how uncomfortable the whole conversation had made her. "Well, in the two years that I've worked at the Ministry, I've had four hundred and seventy-two jobs."

If Hermione had been drinking something, she would have spat it out. "You're joking!"

"I'm not," Draco assured her. "That's why I'm here, I can't keep a job. Mainly because I insult people a lot."

"Fancy that." Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Old habits die hard," he laughed.

"Well, you already know my opinion of your 'old habits.'"

"Yes, let's not revisit that conversation tonight. My throat's really sore from all the shouting we've been doing of late."

They were interrupted, once again, by their waiter, who delivered their drinks and took their orders before leaving.

"So, how's life?" Hermione asked, sipping her water.

"Apart from the fact that I've been forced into temporary squibhood by my employers?" Draco asked. "It's, you know, life."

"Ah," Hermione said. "Life."

"Yours?"

"It's life," she laughed. "You know, it's vague, and not very specific, and difficult to understand, and-"

"All right, all right, I'll elaborate. My life is having its ups and downs."

"What are the ups?"

"I'm not in a committed relationship, thank God."

Hermione snickered. "Is that it?"

"Well, I-" Draco cut his sentence short.

"Well you-?"

"I'm about to have a lovely chicken dinner, is what," Draco replied, though the truth was that Draco couldn't for the life of him think of anything else good happening at the moment. "What about you, what's your life like?"

"Well, I'm engaged, I love my job, I just bought a great new flat, and I've been hired to do a series of guest lectures at a school for magic in Asia."

"Sounds like you're on top of the world."

"I'm very happy," Hermione said, smiling serenely.

"So, that engagement you mentioned, what's that like?"

"How do you mean, exactly?"

"What's it like coming home to the same person all the time?"

"Well, it's lovely." Hermione was beaming by this point. "No matter what happens, no matter what the press says or what fake photograph becomes public, there's always someone there who has my back and loves me. It's a great feeling."

"Be honest, now," Draco said seriously. "Does it bother you that it's Weasley?"

Hermione burst into a fit of laughter. "No, Malfoy, of course not! I accepted him, remember?"

"How do things with him work, anyway?" Hermione gave Draco a quizzical stare. "I mean, you're really smart, and he's really-"

"Ron is in no way unintelligent," Hermione said, her voice ice. "He's smart, and kind, and funny, and understanding, and passionate, and-"

"Calm down, I was joking," Draco sneered. Both took large gulps of water, which hit their throats like ice-cold knives.

Coughing, Hermione glared at Draco. "I'm sorry, I just get sick of questions like that," Hermione said after composing herself. "I hear them far too often."

"I was just kidding, I really didn't mean anything by it. I mean, we both know my feelings about Potter and Weasley, but I don't care who you choose to associate yourself with."

"For the record, I consider myself extremely lucky that Ron and I are together. I'm the one with the good fortune. Not him, me."

"Sure."

"I love him."

"I honestly could not care less about your relationship with Weasley."

"All right, good." Hermione was suddenly extremely embarrassed by her outburst. She and Draco had been getting along fine, and she'd gone and ruined it with her overactive response reflex. "So..."

She had nothing to say, but the silence was absolutely killing her.

"So," Draco responded.

They both sat in silence as their waiter returned, gave them their meals, and they began eating.

"Good chicken?" Hermione asked.

"Very," Draco answered. "Good pasta?"

"Yes, quite."

The awkward silence continued.

"So, you're happily engaged to Weasley," Draco finally said after finishing his chicken.

"Still on about that?" Hermione asked tiredly. "I'd hoped you'd gotten bored of it."

"Irritating you and making you uncomfortable will never get boring, Granger."

Hermione sighed heavily and shook her head. "I'd feared as much."

"Really, Granger-"

"Why don't you call me by my surname?"

Draco was thrown by the seemingly innocent question. "Well, I don't know. You're Granger, that's all. Why don't you call me by my first name?"

"You told me that Mudbloods have no right to use your surname."

"When the hell did I say that?"

"First year."

"Oh, right," Draco said, the memory of their first conversation coming back to him. "I did say that. Wait, so you listened to me?"

"Well, back then I was intimidated by you and so I listened, then I didn't think you deserved that level of camaraderie from me, and then it was just a habit."

"Makes sense," Draco shrugged.

"So why don't you call me by my first name? You never said."

"I assume I didn't think muggle-borns were worth that level of camaraderie back then," Draco said, smirking, "and I suppose it just became habitual to call you 'Granger.'"

Hermione's face was blank, then shocked, and then smiling.

"Why so happy?" Draco asked. "You aren't planning to murder me, are you?"

"Draco, you didn't say 'Mudblood'!"

"Didn't I? Oh, my mistake."

"No, you idiot! That's good!"

"It's odd is what it is."

Hermione smiled softly at him. "Thank you."

"Don't go getting all soft, Granger. I slipped up once, it doesn't mean anything."

"Hermione," she corrected him.

"What?"

"My name's Hermione."

Draco was silent for a second. Then- "Hermione. Of course."

* * *

><p>The next morning, Draco couldn't believe his eyes.<p>

"Your hair," he croaked. "What happened to it?"

"What? Oh, I used a ton of products yesterday to make it look like that, but I'd never go to all that effort every day," Hermione said.

"But it wasn't frizzy yesterday," Draco said. "Now it's-"

"Unbearably so?" Hermione laughed. "I know, but life is much easier this way."

"So your hair won't look like that again any time soon?"

"Nope." Smiling, Hermione turned back to her bowl of cereal and began eating again. Draco awkwardly sat, unsure quite how to phrase the confession he'd been preparing since the previous night.

"Granger, you should know that I don't hate you."

"Hermione."

"What? Oh, right. Well, Hermione, I don't hate you."

"Good to know."

"I mean, I know I've acted like it, but I don't."

"Okay, then."

"Because of my family, and stuff, and I didn't like you that were smarter than me, and-"

"What on earth does that have to do with anything?" Hermione laughed.

"Hey," Draco said defensively, "it isn't funny! I didn't like that a muggle-born was smarter than me!"

"You must be joking."

Draco smirked and poured himself a bowl of cereal. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he would recognize the fact that bantering with Hermione made him want to smile. That being said, Draco was extremely busy lying to himself, and so he hadn't noticed that yet.

It was true, though; banter with Hermione was like banter with no other. Not only was she smart, she was witty and interesting, and didn't simper like other girls he'd met. Given, he wasn't interested in most girls for the banter, so perhaps all females were similarly quick-witted and he just hadn't realized, but something told Draco that Hermione was unique.

"What are you thinking about?" Hermione asked, her voice dispersing his thoughts.

"I was wondering where the Ministry will put me once we finish this sensitivity training," Draco said, the lie slipping smoothly from his tongue. "I've had a job in every department, you know. I don't think there are any jobs left."

"You haven't had a job in every department," Hermione corrected him.

"Well, that's what the Minister told me," Draco smiled.

"He lied," Hermione insisted.

"Oh? And where haven't I worked?"

"You haven't worked with me yet."

Draco thought about this. "True. Which department are you?"

"It doesn't have a name, officially speaking."

Draco was extremely bemused. "What?"

"Well, the other departments aren't really supposed to know I exist. I mean, there are rumours, and strictly speaking everybody is allowed to know I exist, but people looking into my department isn't at all encouraged."

"Why?"

"How am I supposed to catch bad guys if they know who to hide their activities from?"

Draco thought about this. "Good point, well played. So how many people work in this department of yours?"

"There's two investigators, my assistant, and myself."

"And you are?"

"The head of the department."

Draco suddenly found it difficult to swallow. "Head of your department? In only two years?"

"Well, at first I was the only member of my department, but as the Minister for Magic saw the usefulness of the department he assigned more people to it. We're small, but that's how we need to be in order to maintain a low profile."

"Jesus." Draco was in awe. He'd always thought Hermione would end up with a really dull job, something to do with house-elf rights. He'd never foreseen her becoming a top-secret spy for the Ministry. "What happened to spew?"

Hermione gave him a frosty glare. "S.P.E.W., you mean. It assimilated with the Department of Magical Creature Control, which later became the Office of Inter-Species Relations. I stuck with it for awhile, but after it became a Ministry operation, I became sort of... bored, I suppose. I still support house-elf rights, absolutely, but after those rights became legislation-"

"You felt your talents would be better employed elsewhere. I get it."

"Exactly."

"A spy, though?"

"I suppose that, after fighting evil since the age of eleven, anything else seems dull."

Draco cocked his head to the side. "Since you were eleven?"

"Oh, yes. Harry, Ron and I have been going up against Dark magic since year one at Hogwarts."

"No way. You're such a liar."

"First year, we go up against Quirrel and Voldemort to save the Philosopher's Stone. Year two, we figure out the secret of the Basilisk and kill it, along with one of Voldemort's Horcruxes. Year three, we fight Peter Pettigrew and help Sirius Black escape from thousands of Dementors. Year four, the Triwizard, though Ron and I didn't do much; it was Harry who dueled with Voldemort. Year five, we start the D.A. and infiltrate the Ministry, where we duel with Death Eaters and Harry face Voldemort once more. Year six, not too much, as it was Harry who went off with Dumbledore, though there was that battle at the end of the year, which I'm sure you remember-" Draco flinched- "and finally, year seven. Months spent seeking out and destroying Horcruxes, coming face-to-face with Voldemort multiple times, and finally destroying him."

"Huh."

"Yep."

Draco clicked his tongue. "Well, I suppose that after all that, anything else _would_ seem pretty dull."

Hermione nodded, wondering what life would have been like had she not befriended Harry and Ron first year. It would have been, she decided, much less interesting.

"So if you love adventure and all that," Draco said suddenly, "why the interest in all this marital bliss stuff? Isn't it a bit too tame for you?"

"I've never really thought about it like that," Hermione shrugged. "I suppose I don't see it as the end of my adventures."

"Do you mean to say that you'll continue chasing bad guys even once you're married?" Draco was very, very confused.

"Of course, why wouldn't I?"

"Won't you be staying home, taking care of the children and such?"

Hermione laughed. "Draco, you're such an old man."

Draco wasn't sure what Hermione meant, but he knew to be offended. "What do you mean?"

"Married women are allowed to have jobs, you know," Hermione said, as if speaking to a small child. "They're allowed to make money, and everything!"

"I've never heard of it happening."

"That's because you grew up in your backward, pure-blooded high society," Hermione said matter-of-factly.

"Hey! I take offense to that! I'll have you know that I was very well-raised," Draco retorted.

"Really?" Hermione said. "You're going to argue this?"

"Of course I am," Draco said meekly, his resolve quickly withering beneath Hermione's glare. "Well, perhaps some of my morals needed tweaking upon reaching adulthood, but..."

"But what?"

"At least I know the difference between a fish fork and salad fork," Draco said defiantly.

The room filled with shimmering peals of laughter. "You know, Draco," Hermione giggled, "you really aren't bad guy. Not bad at all."

As far as compliments went, it wasn't the worst, and Draco decided to take it.


	9. The Teashop

Draco was extremely irritated, and he did not know why. He'd been talking with Hermione, and then the phone rang and Hermione was talking to Weasley, and then Draco had felt like setting something on fire.

It didn't make sense.

Draco thought over the series of events once more, trying to locate the source of his anger, and came up blank. It was, it seemed, completely unprovoked.

"Hello, darling," Hermione said into the phone. "I've missed you so much."

There it was again, that desire to break something. Ignoring the voice in the back of his mind which was telling him to snap his spoon clean in half, Draco continued picking at his cereal as Hermione spoke with her fiancé.

"I'm great," she was saying. "No, really. I'm actually beginning to enjoy myself. Of course, it would be much more enjoyable if a certain red-headed man was here with me... God, I look forward to seeing you again."

Draco could just discern Ron's voice coming through the speaker, and it made him want to vomit. That voice was love incarnate, flying through those complicated wires and pouring out the phone, coating Hermione in a thick happiness. The urge to break something was back, and stronger than before.

Hermione was laughing now. "You're going to cook? That'll be the day... God, it's been forever since I saw you. I can't wait. What's that? Oh, yeah, we've gotten over all that. Really, we have. I'd even go so far as to say we're friends now." Hermione smiled briefly at Draco over her shoulder.

Draco imagined that, were he ever to be stabbed in the stomach, it would feel something like what he was feeling at that moment.

"Oh, don't be silly," Hermione laughed. "You men are so easily threatened. Draco's just a friend." Hermione turned back to Draco and rolled her eyes upward, shaking her head at Ron's silliness.

The knife in Draco's gut twisted.

And he still didn't know why.

* * *

><p>"Oh, look at that teashop!" Hermione said excitedly, pointing to a grungy-looking old restaurant with an awning which looked one good gust of wind away from complete obliteration.<p>

"What about it?" Draco asked.

"Doesn't it look cute?" It didn't.

"Not really," Draco informed her.

"Can we go there for lunch?"

"Why?"

"Because it looks great!"

"Does it?" But Draco allowed Hermione to grab his wrist and drag him to the teashop, where she happily asked for a table for two and deposited him in a chair.

"It's so quaint!" Hermione gushed, releasing Draco's wrist.

Draco rubbed his arm, which was now bright red due to the painfully tight grip with which Hermione had held it.

"Jesus, Hermione, stop being such a girl," Draco grumbled.

"I like teashops," Hermione shrugged. "My Mum and I used to go to this teashop near our house every Sunday, and we'd order scones and she'd always eat the raisins that I picked out of mine, because I _hated_ raisins." Hermione smiled at some distant memory filled with laughter and Orange Pekoe.

"Sounds nice," Draco said.

"It was."

Their waitress came over to take their orders, which amounted to a plate of tea sandwiches, scones, and two pots of Earl Grey.

"So how's Weasley?" Draco asked, the urge to destroy something returning as he watched her cinnamon eyes catch fire at the mention of the poor man's name.

"He's great," she said, the simplicity of her answer contrasting vividly with the range of emotions flitting across her face. All happy emotions. Weasley made her happy.

Draco shifted in his seat, as if changing his position could dispel his sudden anger.

"That's good," Draco said. "Nice to know he's yet to trip over his own feet and die."

Hermione rolled her eyes and laughed. "You know, now that I know you aren't as wretched as I'd previously thought, those insults don't sting at all."

"I'm clearly losing my touch," Draco said. "I should work on that."

They were interrupted by their waitress, who swooped down upon the table with a tray filled with precariously perched teapots and plates.

"Two pots of tea," the girl said rapidly, "sandwiches, and scones. Enjoy."

She was gone as quickly as she had come, and Hermione and Draco were soon piling their plates with scones and sandwiches.

"Oh, they have raisins in them!" Hermione moaned, picking some raisins out of her scone. "I thought we ordered plain scones."

Draco smiled and surveyed Hermione's scowling face. Her scowl wasn't threatening, as scowls are wont to be. Instead, it was dangerously endearing.

Draco wanted to smack himself for that last thought.

"Give them here," he instructed.

"What?"

"The raisins. Give them here."

Hermione smiled and handed him her plate, which was riddled with raisins. "Thanks."

"Now stop picking at your food, it's disgusting."

Laughing Hermione, took her raisin-less plate back. "Duly noted."

After tea the two took to the street, wandering through the now-familiar streets of the town to which they had been assigned. After walking for twenty minutes, they found themselves in front of the teashop once more, where an elderly gardener was watering the plants in the window boxes.

"Okay, Draco, I want a picture of you in front of the teashop," Hermione said.

"Why?"

"So I have solid proof that you, Draco Malfoy, condescended to set foot in a Muggle restaurant!" Giggling, she ran to the other side of the street, so as to get both Draco and the whole restaurant in frame.

"She's cute," the gardener said to Draco as Hermione ran away.

"Um, thanks," Draco said awkwardly.

"I can see why you're so infatuated with her."

"Right."

"Young love," the gardener continued, throwing Draco a knowing wink. "Ain't nothing like it."

Draco gave the gardener a thin smile and turned to face Hermione and her Muggle camera. Laughing, the gardener began to walk away, whistling a tune which Draco didn't recognize.

"Perfect!" Hermione shouted as she ran back across the street. "You look just as irritated as I'd hoped you would!"

Draco laughed. "Pleased to oblige you, Miss Granger."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mister Malfoy," Hermione giggled. "Oh, look!" Grabbing him by the hand this time, Hermione proceeded to once more drag Draco to a store. "Used books are my favourite," she breathed, staring through the dusty windows of an old used book store.

For his part, Draco had never understood the appeal of used books. When he liked books at all, it was always new ones. They smelled clean, like a new beginning. The smell of old books always reminded Draco a bit of death.

"I love the smell of old books," Hermione said. "They smell like history." And so it was that, his hand still clasped in Hermione's, Draco found himself in a room which smelled of old books. Hermione was very happy. Draco was not.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked, turning to Draco after feeling him stiffen.

"Fine," Draco said.

Hermione looked down and saw their hands, still intertwined. Blushing, she released him. "Sorry, I'd forgotten about..." she trailed off, her fiery blush rising in temperature. "I'm going to go look at books now."

She scurried off, leaving Draco to stare at his hand, which had suddenly become painfully cold.

Raising his head to watch Hermione's retreating figure, his heart sped up briefly. Eyes widening, he stared at the offending hand and recalled his inexplicable anger and pain earlier in the day.

Suddenly, the smell of the old books became too much for Draco. Gasping, he launched himself out the door of the book store, throwing himself into a bench just outside.

His mind reeling as his cognitive process worked through exactly what was happening to him, Draco analyzed once more the hand Hermione had been holding.

"Granger, what have you done?"

The door to the bookshop swung open, and out stepped the girl in question. "Draco, are you all right?" she asked cautiously. "You left really quickly."

Draco glanced up at her, at the eyes which were so bring and shining that he didn't know how he'd missed it before, and the smile which was turning his bones into some of gelatinous substance.

"I'm fine," he said. "I just felt a bit claustrophobic."

"Well, let's go home," Hermione said, offering her arm to help him up.

Her voice sounded like honey. It didn't bode well.


	10. Brutal

Ronald Weasley was seriously irritated; so irritated, in fact, that he had managed to write only six words in the past six hours.

He stared at the sheaf of parchment in front of him, re-tracing each letter for the umpteenth time. _The suspect was apprehended in London-_

There was supposed to be much more to this particular report. In fact, it was supposed to be twenty pages long. It was also supposed to be handed in the next day.

"All right, I didn't want to ask, but what's the hell's going on?" his friend and partner-in-crime, Harry Potter, asked him. The green-eyed man shook a shock of unruly black hair out of his eyes.

"It's Hermione," Ron muttered through gritted teeth.

"I gathered that, thanks," Harry said, his words, heavy with condescension, puddling on the floor.

"She's getting along with Malfoy." Ron's comment joined Harry's on the ground.

Harry was musing. "I see." The room fell silent for a minute, perhaps two, as the two men thought through the situation. "So your fiancée's doing well, and that's upset you?" Harry's voice was the colour of disbelief.

"She said they're friends."

"Ah," Harry said, nodding knowledgeably. "Friends are the worst."

"Right?" Ron spun around quickly, the office walls passing in a blur as he did so. "I knew you'd get it."

"I _hate_ Ginny's friends," Harry groaned. His jealousy matched his eyes. "And these stupid girls, they never get it."

"Never!" Ron agreed. "They're all, _Ooh, he's so sweet!_ and _Ooh, we're such good friends now!_ The only time a guy can really be friends with a girl is if he's gay."

"They never realize that these guys are in love with them," Harry groaned. His wife, also Ron's sister, was constantly attracting the attention of other men. Harry didn't really blame them, as he knew better than anyone just how attention-grabbing her long red hair could be, but it didn't make him happy either.

"Never," Ron sighed. "And she says they're friends."

Harry shook his head and stared out their shared office window. "Brutal, Ron, absolutely brutal." The red-headed man shook his head dejectedly before spinning back to face his desk. He spun much slower this time; he could make out the various article and photographs pinned to the wall.

"What if she-?"

"She won't," Harry said quickly. "It's Hermione. Besides, if she were going to leave you, she'd have done it ages ago."

"It's just... What if she realizes that she's too good for me?"

Neither Harry nor Ron were very comfortable with Talking About Emotions, however when it comes to his best mate, a man sometimes has to make sacrifices. And Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, was no stranger to sacrificing himself for other people.

"Look, she isn't too good for you," Harry assured Ron. "You're a wicked good Auror, you're funny, you're smart, and you're a damn sight nicer than Malfoy."

"You lied about me being smart," Ron accused weakly. His words collided with the cluttered wall before him and slid slowly downward.

"Well, I meant the rest of it, at least," Harry laughed. Ron smiled as widely as he could- he grimaced.

"I still don't like it."

"Nobody does."

"Except Malfoy." Ron sounded like a man defeated, and Harry did not like it.

"Ron, how many times have you faced Voldemort and lived?" Harry's voice was one thousand large bells being struck at the same time, resounding across their tiny office and demanding the full attention of the desolate Ronald.

"Never, why?"

"Twice, that is how many times. You faced his Horcrux, and then you faced him in person, and both times you were bent on destroying him. How many times did you survive?"

"What are you getting at, Harry?"

"How many times?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Twice."

"Twice, that's right. Most people don't even survive once. Are you telling me that you can face Voldemort and survive it twice, but you can't fight some swotty little prat for your girl?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Harry."

The manufactured sunlight pierced the window, engaging in a complicated dance with the particles of dust which lined the air. "That's pathetic, Ron," Harry said gravely.

"How do you do it?" Ron asked suddenly. "How do you deal with Ginny's _friends_?"

Harry swallowed, desperately wishing he didn't have to answer the question. His method of coping wasn't quite as manly as he would like to share with the general public. Then again, this was Ron, and Ron was looking one piece of bad news away from jumping off a broomstick.

"I hold her hand whenever they're around." Harry was speaking to the linoleum floor, which was proving to be a most attentive audience.

"Is that it?"

There was a crack in the floor, just visible if Harry tilted his head to the right just _so_. "I- I squeeze her hand whenever they get too flirty, or whatever. Like, to let her know I'm still there."

Ron nodded slowly, seriously. Harry, who had expected him to explode into laughter, made a mental note to trust his best friend more in the future.

"But I can't hold her hand right now," Ron said, sadness echoing in his words like a rock slide in a cave. "She's off in some town somewhere."

"You could phone her more," Harry suggested.

"I phone her every day as it is."

"Phone her twice a day?"

"I don't want her to think I'm crowding her." Being in love with Hermione was a tricky business.

Harry stared at a long-overdue document which was sitting on his desk. He got the strange impression that it was mocking him. "I don't know what to tell you, mate," he announced solemnly. "I don't know what to do."

"S'all right," Ron sighed, spinning in his chair once more.

"Girls just don't make sense." Harry grimaced. "Defeating Voldemort? Easy. Nothing to it. Figuring out girls? Impossible."

"You know, Harry-" Ron's voice was a muddy blue- "in some ways, girls are a lot scarier than Voldemort."

Harry crumpled the document at which he had been staring and threw it at the wall. Ron was right.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy was waging a vicious internal battle on his own thoughts.<p>

She's quite pretty, some part of his brain said.

No, she isn't, Draco retaliated.

You're in denial, the voice sneered.

You're stupid, Draco volleyed.

I'm you, the voice reminded him.

_Shit._

It always began like this, these little wars: Draco and Hermione would be doing something completely normal, like working or eating breakfast, and then she would go and do or say something unforgivably endearing, and suddenly Draco's thoughts would turn on him like a pack of hungry lions on a wounded gazelle.

Except it was more violent.

This time, they'd been at work.

"Can I have an appow?" the small child had asked Hermione.

"An apple?" Hermione had said, smiling brightly.

"Appow."

"Ah-pull," Hermione had said slowly.

"Ah-pow," the child had replied.

Laughing, Hermione had fetched an apple. "Here you go, enjoy your apple."

"Appow."

Hermione's smile in that moment was sunshine at dawn. "All right, enjoy."

"Appow!" the child had shouted, his delightment coating the entire café as he returned to the table where his mother anxiously awaited him.

"Cute kid," Hermione had commented after the child had retreated.

"Yeah, too bad about the inability to talk," Draco had laughed.

Hermione had swatted his arm, promptly causing Draco's limbs to melt. "Hey! I used to be unable to say L's properly, too, so be nice!"

Draco had choked on a laugh.

"Is that so?"

"It is," she had said, her voice a playful challenge before turning her attention to a customer.

And so it was that Draco was currently battling it out with his own conscious.

"Are you all right?" the brunette asked, interrupting Draco's thoughts. The only thing brighter than her eyes was her voice. Draco loved her for that. He also hated himself for loving her for that, but he had no time to dwell on that particular predicament.

"Fine," he told her. "Just tired." It wasn't a lie, either. Draco was absolutely exhausted.

"Why?" she asked. It was one of her many Faults Which Were Not Faults, this curiosity. In theory it was a good thing, but it always showed up right when Draco didn't feel like sharing. Like this exact moment.

Because I was up all night thinking about you, Draco thought bitterly. "Couldn't sleep."

"Why?" the damnèd girl asked again.

Because you're very distracting. "Don't know, just couldn't."

"Well, next time come wake me up. We can keep each other company."

Her eyes were wide and shining with concern, the kind of friendly concern which ones feels when one's friend has experienced a problem. Draco wanted to punch everything he had ever come into contact with, and some other things beyond that pool of objects.

"Will do," he said instead, opting for a much less violent response. "Thanks."

While Draco was silently attempting to mask his irritation, Hermione was busy being concerned. Something was very, very wrong. It wasn't just that Draco was being nice to her, which was odd enough. It wasn't even that Draco was turning out to be a lovely person, even though the idea still struck her as odd. The problem was that some dynamic of their relationship had shifted, but she didn't know which one or how.

Hermione was normally quite perceptive as, being an extremely observant and logical person, very little slipped her notice. The only thing which she habitually misinterpreted and misunderstood was the advances of men (and, on occasion, women).

Having said this, she neither understood nor knew how to interpret this change in her relationship with the infuriatingly secretive Draco Malfoy.

It didn't take long for her to put two and two together.

Her feelings quickly fell to the floor, where they crashed and may or may not have spontaneously combusted. She didn't feel like looking down to check.

"You okay?" Draco asked, concerned.

Hermione glanced up to meet his eyes, and, incredibly, felt even worse than she had only a second earlier. Was that admiration in his eyes? Was it just her, or did he seem happier now that he was looking at her?

Draco Malfoy is not in love with you, Hermione told herself firmly. You are his friend, and he is your friend, and he does not have feelings for you.

Hermione was a bad liar. She was also a secret hopeless romantic. For this reason, she could not tell whether or not the disbelieving note in her internal dialogue was due to a badly executed lie, or to some tiny piece of hope which was telling her that she was about to be swept off her feet by a handsome bachelor.

She thought about Ron. She felt like crying. She decided now wasn't the best time.

"Fine, fine," she said. "I'm great." Her voice was nonchalant, but her eyes gave her away. They always did, the traitors. In fact, Draco had spent so much time staring at her eyes that he had the ability read them as easily as he would a large-type book, and he knew for a fact that something was horribly wrong.

"Speak," he instructed.

"I miss Ron," she said, her gaze shifting to the floor. There was a piece of muffin lying just below the till. She would have to remember to sweep that up later.

Draco could hear the truth of that statement in her small, weary voice. She clearly missed the red-headed boy, for some reason or another. But he also heard that there was more to the story than just that, and he was determined to play sleuth until he knew the whole truth.

"Are you sure that's everything?" he prodded. "You can tell me, you know."

"That's it," she lied, still refusing to meet Draco's eyes. She didn't want to see what she thought she had seen there. She didn't think she could handle it.

As per the norm, Hermione was right. She was not at all equipped to handle it. Draco's normally cool eyes were on fire with battling emotions. There was love and hate, happiness and depression, peace and anger, hope and defeat. His eyes in that moment were the definition of torment. It would have killed her stone dead.

"You know I don't believe that, right?" he asked. His voice was softer than he had intended it to be. It was the kind of voice a man only ever used with the person he loved. It was a rare voice, precious and meaningful.

Hermione missed it completely.

"Well, you should," she insisted stubbornly, "because that's it."

"Sure, okay," Draco said. Hermione felt as though, in that moment, Draco understood her better than she did herself. This thought made her uncomfortable; she didn't like the idea of Draco knowing things about her that even she didn't know. It made her wonder what he had discovered about her. It scared her.

"I need to sweep," she said, quickly grabbing a broom and commencing the task.

"I swept twenty minutes ago," Draco said, thrown by the rapid change in conversation. "It's fine." Both looked down at the pristine floor, completely clean save for that lone piece of muffin. It stared at them, and they at it.

"No, the floor is dirty," Hermione insisted. She sounded angry, which Draco interpreted to mean that she was angry with him for some reason or another. Silent, he stepped back to allow her room. The truth was that she was angry with herself for not knowing what was happening, or how to handle herself. She was angry with herself for acting like a child in the face of potential adversity, despite the fact that she knew she was capable of handing whatever would come her way. Including the admiration of Draco Malfoy.

She loathed herself just a little bit for her behaviour.

She took out her anger on the broom and the floor, allowing her fury to run down the broom handle and onto the ground, where it soaked into the dilapidated tiles. By the end of her sweeping session, she was exhausted, drained, and perspiring. She had been quite upset. The sweep had helped, a bit.

"Feeling better?" Draco asked, analyzing her defensively hunched form. The storm in his eyes had ended. A wary peace had replaced it. It looked foreboding.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione responded, her voice a shade too harsh for Draco to even begin to consider believing her. She desperately needed to work on her lying abilities. She was pathetically transparent.

"Well, whenever you're ready to talk about it, I'm here," he said. He cheerfully waved goodbye to a departing customer before peeling the fake smile from his face and resuming his troubled demeanor.

"Why are you so nice all of a sudden?" Hermione asked. It sounded more like an accusation than a question. Draco found himself on the defensive.

"Because we agreed to start again, because I was under the impression we're friends." She took a step back, and he took a step forward. "We are friends, aren't we? Or have I been deluding myself?"

"We're friends, Draco," Hermione said, putting the slightest emphasis on the word 'friends.'

Draco's blood turned to fire and then to dry ice in a mere millisecond. Did she know? How did she know? How did she feel about knowing? Was he supposed to know that she knew?

"Yeah, friends," he said slowly. "Of course." It was like stabbing himself in the heart with a jagged blade except even worse, because not only was she watching him do it, she was practically asking him to. How cruel. She had never struck him as cruel. Naïve, maybe. Arrogant, sometimes. Self-righteous, constantly. But cruel? This was new. He had not expected it from her.

Hermione chose her next words carefully. "It's nice to have a good friend in you, Draco. I really value your friendship."

That was what told Draco, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she knew. He felt like dying, which was funny, because he had thought himself to already be emotionally dead at that point. He supposed there must have been one last shred of hope to kill, one which he had missed the last time. Oh, well. No chance of that now. The deed was done.

"And I yours," he assured her, as if he hadn't just committed emotional suicide while she watched.

Oh, the joys of young love.

He remembered once, when he was a young child, asking his father what the big deal about girls was, and why his father ever bothered with girls at all. Lucius had told him that, when Draco was older, he would understand, and that being in love was like no other feeling in the world. He had said that love was like flying, except sacred; a most remarkable experience which could never be put into words, so long as it is experienced with the right person. Narcissa, Lucius told Draco, was the right person.

Lucius had done a lot of terrible things in his life, but it could never be said that he ever treated his wife like anything less than a goddess.

What Lucius had failed to mention was that, after two seconds of sacred flight, love was like crashing and burning and dying ten thousand painful deaths as you watched the right person laugh and smile and beam over some other man who could never even begin to deserve her. What Lucius had failed to mention was that love was the most painful and horrific experience anybody could ever have the misfortune of living through.

"Are you all right, Draco?" Hermione asked. His face had turned hard and angry, but as he looked at Hermione he softened.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice low and unmistakably sad. "Just thinking."

"What were you thinking about?"

Draco considered lying for a moment, and then realized that to do so would be pointless. She knew he cared for her, how could she not? And she more than likely knew that he knew that she knew, because she was a genius. And so, fear and resolve both curling up in the pit of his stomach, Draco Malfoy told Hermione Granger something which would alter the state of their relationship forever. He told her The Truth.

"I was thinking about how awful it is to see the person you've fallen in love with be happily engaged to someone else, and how I'm stuck between wanting to kill him and having the knowledge that to do so would hurt her, and that if I ever hurt her I might just have to kill myself, but then who would love her enough to comfort her properly after the whole ordeal was over with? And how I really don't deserve her, but then I'm selfish enough to want her despite that fact, but I know she'll never feel the same way because why would she? I'm not even half what she deserves, and I know it, and she knows it, but still every time she smiles I get happy for some reason, and being in love is supposed to be a beautiful thing except I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. That's what I was thinking about."

For the first time in a long time, Hermione didn't know what to say, and that terrified them both.


	11. That Sort of Situation

Hermione was sitting in Sadie's office, a heart clasped tightly in her hand as it beat out a confused and erratic rhythm. Draco had just told her that he was in love with her. She felt the blood from the terrified heart running through her fingers and dripping slowly to the ground. The words of her heartbreaking story were dripping down with it. They, too, were coated with blood. Hermione wasn't sure from whom the blood had originated.

The room was stiflingly warm.

Sadie stared at her, stared at the pained organ she was clutching so tightly, and waited for Hermione to continue speaking. She didn't seem to mind the metaphorical mess all the metaphorical blood was making on the linoleum floor.

"So I think you see why I feel the Ministry can make an exception," Hermione said. Her voice was a spring which had been wound just a bit too tightly thirteen times over.

"Yes, I fully agree with you," Sadie said, her voice a soft green. "The training cannot go on in these circumstances. I'll contact the Ministry immediately."

Hermione nodded, dropped the heart she had been clutching, and left the room. She passed Draco without looking at him, passed the customers without smiling at them, and passed an image of herself when life was simpler without noticing. She was determined to reach her goal. She was determined to make it out the door without hating herself.

Hermione survived the voyage, though a creeping sense of self-loathing indicated she had not succeeded in achieving her goal. Sadie owled a few people at the Ministry. Draco found himself shaking with worry. They all found themselves returning to the lives they had lead prior to the start of the sensitivity training.

"Hermione, it's so brilliant to see your face again!" Ron said, pulling the girl into his arms and wrapping her in love. "God, I've missed you."

Nobody missed Draco, but he didn't care, because as it turns out the only opinion he cared about was that of Hermione, and she had made it clear she didn't care about him. So it was that Draco did not care. Draco wasn't sure exactly when he had handed her his heart, but he had certainly felt it when she'd abandoned it after speaking with Sadie. That's the thing about having nameless hearts in your possession, though; you tend to get careless with them. The heart Hermione had been holding, for example. It had been his. Funny how things like that tend to work out that way.

"I'm so glad it all worked out, Ron, I've missed you so much." Hermione's voice shone as brightly as her eyes. Ron's shone back with an equal, if not even more intense, fervour. "So, when are you going to cook that meal you promised for me?" Ron opted to kiss her instead.

Draco opted to distract himself as best he could, and so he sat down at a table in some restaurant he hadn't bothered to check the name of and nodded to the faceless girls who were winking his way. Everything was navy blue, down to the skipping record in his head. You're an idiot, you're an idiot, you're an idiot.

"You're an idiot," Hermione said lovingly, "for thinking that you could ever cook." Ron smirked and became a boy, then hugged Hermione and became a man again.

"Man, it's good to see you again," someone said. Draco nodded at them and said something vague and heavy with barely concealed regrets. The someone left, and Draco stared at the table.

Hermione stared at the table in disbelief. "You cooked? You actually cooked?" It even looked edible.

Draco's food didn't even look edible, such was the extent of his grief. He'd paid a high price for what was appearing to be the most disgusting meal he'd ever encountered. He'd paid a high price for a lot, lately.

"This comes at a high price," Ron said teasingly. His voice was a soft yellow. It was the colour of happiness. "Shall we say... ten kisses and fifteen hugs?"

"Ten bottles of whiskey and fifteen shots for my friends and I!" Draco shouted, not quite drunk enough to pass out yet drunk enough to pay an exorbitant amount on alcohol for perfect strangers. He raised his glass in a broken man's salute. "May they never fall in love!"

"May we never fall out of love," Hermione said, raising the glass filled with blood-red wine toward the ceiling. Ron smiled, adding, "That would be impossible."

Impossible. That word danced through Draco's mind, scribbling beautiful dreams and horrible insults and beautiful insults and horrible dreams on the inside of his skull in indelible neon marker. He was trying to sleep, but it wasn't working. Not tonight.

Not tonight, Hermione thought. She had been about to walk over to Draco's room to wish him a good night, before remembering that she lived with Ron and Draco didn't have a room with her anymore. Oh, right. The sensitivity training had been cut short due to the "inappropriate nature" of her relationship with Draco. She'd forgotten about that, momentarily. She'd thought everything was as it had been for the past few months. She'd been wrong.

Draco had been horribly, horribly wrong to tell her. He knew this now. He had known it then, too. He had just sort of _said_ it, the way you accidentally told your Mum what you thought of that one awful meal she made that one time when you had meant to lie and say it was amazing. Like that sort of thing, but infinitely worse, because this was the first girl he'd ever loved and he'd basically ripped his own heart from his very chest and handed it to her, all the while knowing that she could never have taken it because she was busy guarding the heart of some other bastard. Except worse, because he'd been momentarily under the ridiculous impression that she had perhaps _wanted_ his heart, and so it had ripped it out and handed it to her with high hopes, only to fall five thousand miles to five thousand different deaths when he realized that she wasn't the type to balance two hearts at once and he watched her fumble briefly with his heart before dropping it. So it was like that time you accidentally told your Mum the truth about that one meal, except in this case it would involve telling your Mum the truth and then carving your heart from your chest before staple-gunning it to the bottom of a vat which had been filled with highly concentrated phosphoric acid by the love of your life. It was that sort of situation, which has happened to all of us at one point or another, I'm sure.

* * *

><p>Much as I hate Authors' Notes, I feel I should put one here.<p>

I'm sorry this is so short. I've had some writer's block, and this is all I could come up with. I'll try to make it up to you in my next posting.

In the meantime, thank you so much for all your support and your lovely reviews. I really do appreciate them.

Kind regards,

LFALS


	12. The Reunion

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Ron asked, worriedly analyzing his fiancée's face. "Is everything all right?"

"Fine," Hermione said, her head snapping up. A false light was sparkling in her eyes.

She hadn't been the same since she'd returned from sensitivity training. Ron had noticed right away, right after her initial happiness had faded. Her answers were always one second too slow for him to believe that he had her attention, her eyes always staring into space just a little too long for him to believe that she was happy, her smiles always just a little too sad.

"Hermione, we need to talk." His words, so careful and measured, felt like a slap. She knew what he wanted to talk about. It was a conversation which could only be bruise-coloured.

"What about?"

"You know what I want to talk about." They'd known each other practically their whole lives. Of course she knew. They knew everything about each other.

"Okay," she sighed. "Let's talk."

"What's been going on with you? Even since you got back, it's been like you aren't here. Like, you're here physically, and kind of here mentally, but you're so emotionally... distant."

Hermione stared at her hands. It amazed her that, while she had with her these tools which were designed to serve as weapons, it hadn't been them which had destroyed Draco. All she had needed was silence. Remarkable.

"Hermione?" Ron's strained voice pulled her from her reverie.

"I'm so sorry, Ron. I know this is hard for you, I know I've been different. I'm trying to fix it, I promise, it's just that-"

"You miss him. That's what it is. You miss Draco Malfoy." It still shocked Hermione, after all these years of being with Ron, that she had the power to make him so deeply sad.

She said nothing.

"Look, Hermione, I get that you and he became close. And that you're friends. But please, try to come back to me a bit. I love you so much, you have no idea. I would do absolutely anything for you, and will spend my entire life trying to make you happy. Every second of my existence, I promise. Anything."

"Ron-"

"And if that means leaving so you and he can be together, then I suppose-"

"I don't want that, Ron."

For the first time in months, Ron felt hopeful. "You don't?" His words floated to the ceiling.

"No. I don't know what I need right now, but it isn't for you to leave. Not that. Never that."

"I could have sworn that you... you know."

Hermione shook her head. "No, Ron." They both sat, silent, for a minute until Hermione found her voice again. "Ron, I'm going to go for a walk. Alone. I just need to think."

Ron nodded, her words shattering his heart into innumerable shards. "Of course. Let me know if you need anything."

* * *

><p>Was is Amy or Alison? Draco couldn't remember. She was blonde, blue-eyed, incredibly stupid, and extraordinarily dull. In short, she was a clone of every girl he'd dated since returning from sensitivity training, and there had been an awful lot of them.<p>

"So, Draco, what have you been up to?" the nameless girl (Amanda?) asked.

"Messing around, mainly," he said. "Just having fun. Yourself?" It definitely started with an "A," he knew that much.

As she launched into a long, detailed description of the nothing which she'd been doing lately, Draco downed the rest of his whisky. He was very, very drunk. He spent a lot of time being drunk. In fact, ever since he'd left the Ministry (immediately upon returning from that town with Hermione), it had basically been a permanent state of existence for him. Drunk and miserable. Hurrah.

"Look, I'm so sorry to interrupt, Ashley-"

"Anne. My name's Anne."

Draco stared at her quizzically. "Huh. Good to know. Anyway, as I was saying, I'm going to leave."

"What?"

"I probably won't owl you, or anything, so don't hold your breath for that."

"You're just... going?" She sounded appropriately outraged, as she should have. He was being very rude. He knew that.

"Yeah, I think so. Cheers." He threw some galleons on the table, grabbed his coat, and made his way to the street.

The problem was that Draco's life completely lacked direction. Ever since Hermione had broken his heart, he hadn't wanted to do anything. It had gotten to the point where his parents could no longer tolerate it and he had moved back into the Manor, occupying a single room while the rest of the house remained a dead shell around him.

"I don't know what caused this change," Lucius had said to him, "but I hope to have my son back soon."

"I _am_ back!" Draco had laughed. "Back and never better!" His eyes had been empty.

Now, walking the empty streets, Draco's mind was wandering back to the one topic which he could never avoid despite his very best effort.

He hadn't seen her since that last day of the training, three months ago. He knew nothing about her life now except that she wasn't married, because that would have been in the papers. One war hero marrying another would cause an explosion in the media.

He shook his head, trying to disperse these thoughts. He wanted to think about something else, anything else. What's more, he wanted not to be in love with her. And to be good enough for her. And to be happy again. And to go back to his old, bigoted life from before.

Draco Malfoy wanted a lot of things.

He buried his hands in his coat pockets and hunched over, walking aimlessly through the city. He was heading in no direction in particular, paying no attention to street names or landmarks as he walked. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost missed her.

"Draco?" Her voice was soft, but unmistakably real. He turned, slowly, to face her.

She was smiling sadly as her eyes searched his face. "Hello, Draco."

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he was dreaming or not. He didn't know if maybe this was a drunken hallucination. Instead of voicing any of these thoughts, however, he hugged her, crushing her small form against his body and wishing desperately not to wake up, praying that this was real.

Hermione, at first surprised by the hug, then pulled Draco closer to her, holding him tightly. A real smile tugged at her lips as she breathed him his comforting scent. "I've missed you."

Draco wanted to tell her that he still loved her, but he also didn't want to scare her off. He instead opted to continue holding her. It was enough, for now.

He could feel her body relaxing, feel her breathing becoming slow and deep, as they embraced. She nestled her face against his shoulder and a true smile broke out over her face. He could have died of happiness. He considered the possibility that he had already died, and that this was heaven. He decided he would be okay with that, were that the case.

Finally, however, it ended. She pulled away and he reluctantly let her go, feeling an intense cold where her body had been pressed against his only a few short seconds earlier.

"How have you been?" she asked, smiling up at him.

"Okay," he shrugged.

"You quit your job."

"Yeah. I didn't want to be there anymore."

Hermione nodded. "I've missed seeing you around."

Draco smiled bitterly. "I've missed you, too. So much."

"So what are you up to tonight?"

"Nothing," he said. "Failed date."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Not at all. It wasn't going to work out, anyway. She wasn't right for me."

Hermione shivered. "That's too bad."

"Not your fault," he told her, even though it completely was. She had ruined every other girl in existence for him. "It just didn't work out." He pulled his coat from his shoulders and placed it on hers.

"No, it's fine, you can keep your coat," Hermione insisted.

"You're cold," he told her, "and I don't want it."

She smiled. "Thank you."

They walked in comfortable silence for a bit.

"So how're you doing?" Draco asked.

"Pretty well," Hermione said. "Work's fine, those lectures I gave at that magic school in Asia were successful. Over all, I'm fine."

"Just fine?"

Hermione was silent for a bit. "I missed you," she said again.

Draco didn't want to analyze that statement. He didn't want to acknowledge the tiny bubble of hope which was expanding in the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to think about how perfect Hermione had felt in his arms. Instead, he just kept talking.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "You really shouldn't, really. I'm kind of a tosser."

Hermione broke into laughter. "Definitely," she teased. "Completely unbearable."

While Hermione was laughing, Draco was thinking. He did want to deserve Hermione, very much so. He just wasn't sure how to go about doing that. As it stood, he was an unemployed alcoholic. He could do better. She deserved that.


	13. Sneakers, or, The State of Things

His eyes stared fixedly to the left of her sneakers, which were scuffed from years of the morning runs that he had shared with her. If he could, he would go back in time and prevent himself from starting that particular ritual. It was those mornings, when the sun was just starting to crawl into the sky to the rhythm of their shoes hitting the pavement, that he casually handed his heart to her and she, with a small smile, promised to take care of it. Somewhere between that special smile she gave him when he needed encouragement and her breathless laughs whenever he made a joke during their walking breaks, Ron had lost himself in Hermione.

People would often tell Ron that his relationship with Hermione was like something from a storybook. Boy falls in love with his childhood best friend. They get engaged. They know and love each other perfectly. They have a happily-ever-after. It's cute.

This wasn't cute, though. What was happening to Ron in that moment wasn't cute at all.

"Ron, neither of us has been happy for a long time," Hermione was saying. Her words sliced across his face, marking him. "We both know it isn't working like it used to."

She was wrong, though. Ron had been very happy. He had woken up every morning and rolled over to see a tangled mass of brunette curls, and it had made him happy. He'd get up and make two cups of tea, and every time it made him happy. He'd go out for his daily run by her side, and he was happy. He'd come home to help her make dinner, and it made him terribly happy. He would clean up after dinner so she could get some work done, and it made him happy.

"What are you trying to say?" His voice was deep blue. "Are you saying you don't want me anymore?"

"I'm saying I need some time," Hermione said. "Not that I don't want you. I just need to sort some things out. I'm going to stay somewhere else for a bit." Her luggage, straining at the seams, was stacked behind her.

Ron swallowed, willing himself not to shed the tears that were swimming so persistently along the bottoms of his eyes. "Is this because of Malfoy?" It is a credit to Ron that he managed to ask this question without his voice cracking even once. "It's been five months, Hermione. You can't tell me you've felt this way for the past five months."

"It's nothing to do with that, Ron," she lied.

The headline was written all in a bolded uppercase font and had been charmed to vibrate incessantly, all of which culminated in giving the reader the feeling that the newspaper was screaming at them.

**BELOVED DUO ON BREAK: WHO HURT WHO? **

A photo of Hermione loading her bags into the back of a Muggle car, wiping a tear from her eye, adorned the article. Every once in a while the Hermione in the picture would stare directly into the camera, and every time Draco felt like he'd been punched by a ghost in the stomach.

He hadn't spoken to Hermione since that night he'd bumped into her three months prior, when he'd decided that he needed to get his act together and that she needed happiness. This, he'd decided, meant sobering up, getting a job or at least a hobby, and leaving Hermione to marry Ron. He hadn't even responded when she had owled him a week later, asking how he was. He was determined to remove himself entirely from her life.

Still, though, hearing that they'd broken up made his heart beat a little faster, and seeing Hermione sad made Draco a little sadder, and knowing that she was alone made Draco just the tiniest bit more hopeful.

Draco threw the paper onto the ground and looked around the room he was sitting in. The hobby he'd decided upon when he decided to get one was fixing up the manor, and thus far he'd done a pretty good job of it. While only one third of the manor was actually finished, that one third was all right.

Sure, most of the fine furniture had been sold, but he'd managed to find some okay stuff up in the attic. That, combined with a subscription to "Wizarding Homes Weekly," had enabled him to make the manor nice enough for habitation.

It had come as quite a shock to Lucius and Narcissa when Draco had first undertaken this task. They'd awoken one morning to what sounded like a baby hippogriff handling delicate china while singing opera. It turned out not to be a baby hippogriff handing delicate china while singing opera, however, and instead proved to be Draco trying his hand at home maintenance.

"Draco," Lucius had said, "it's four in the bloody morning. What the devil are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Draco had asked, his voice dripping with condescension.

To be honest, it had looked like Draco, in a fit of rage, had decided to destroy what remained of the manor. He had not, at that time, figured out construction spells.

"I do not pretend to know," Lucius said. "Please tell me."

"I'm fixing the house."

"Why?"

"Because it's broken."

"Draco, you've never so much as cleaned a window, and now you're fixing the manor?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure this is wise?"

"Yes."

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Carry on. Be sure to give your mother and I a call when you're crushed under a pile of rubble and debris."

"That isn't going to happen!" Draco shouted as his father retreated. Much to everyone's surprise – Draco included – Draco was right. He managed quite well, once he got the hang of it.

Presently, Draco was sitting in what had become his office. He had managed to restore the walls, ceilings, and floors to their previous splendour, however the bookshelves still remained painfully bare and the desk he was sitting at was a relic in the least pretty way possible.

He leaned back in his precariously constructed chair and stretched his arms above him. This had become his reflexive response to any thoughts about Hermione, as if simply by stretching the tension out of his muscles he could release all his feelings for her. He stretched an awful lot, and as a result was much more relaxed than he had ever been. This was, of course, negated a bit by the fact that he was rebuilding a manor and rebuilding manors is shockingly stressful. Especially when the only schooling you've ever had included a lot of gardening and absolutely no study of physics.

"Draco?" Lucius walked into the office that was once his own, shot his son's thoughts out of the air, and kicked them out of the way. "Your mother wants to know if you'll be dining with us in the cottage tonight."

Draco's parents were still living in the cottage as the family was still quite poor. Draco had been playing around with their investments, trying to gain some of their previous glory back, however he had only improved their fiscal situation by a small amount. Once again, herbology seemed like a waste of time when compared to the useful classes he could have been taking.

"Yes, I'll be down in a few hours," Draco said. "Just give me some time to fill out this paperwork."

"Your mother's making stew."

"Goody." Having never learned to cook, Narcissa Malfoy only knew how to make one dish, and that was stew. The family had eaten nothing but stew for years.

Lucius left, and Draco took to signing stuff. He signed contracts, receipts, cheques, and other boring things like that. At the end of it all, he came to the conclusion that he desperately needed a real job. He also came to the conclusion that no business would hire him because, if he were totally honest with himself, he was perhaps the worst employee he'd ever come across.

He'd enjoyed his time working for Sadie, however he had absolutely no idea where Sadie was and so that wasn't really an option. He packed up his quill and headed to his parents' for stew.

Hermione was sitting on her bed. Not the bed she shared with Ron, because she had left that one behind, or even the bed she used whenever visiting Harry and Ginny. No, Hermione was sitting on her bed in the house she had shared with Draco. Sure, the location of this house was supposed to be private, but her job was to be able to find things out about other departments within the Ministry. Getting this address had been almost too easy.

She'd informed the Ministry that she'd be working from home for the next month, and so it was that she had the month to spend wandering the small town and visiting with Sadie.

She wandered through the house, wondering what had changed. Last she had been there, it had felt like him. Now, it just felt empty. Her eyes fell on the stove, and memories came flooding back of Draco attempting to use it. Soon she was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, crying with laughter.


	14. Finding a Job in This Economy

Draco had visited exactly thirty small towns in two days, and he had yet to locate Sadie.

His reasoning for finding her was that he desperately needed a job if he hoped to do well by his family, nobody in the wizarding world was likely to hire him, and Sadie was the only employer in the muggle world he had ever met. He would not have known where else to start with his job search.

And so there he was, traipsing through yet another identical Main Street, hoping desperately to catch a glimpse of that familiar café. But no such luck.

"What's wrong, m'boy?" an elderly man asked him, as Draco kicked a rock and muttered a curse under his breath.

"I'm looking for an old friend," Draco answered tersely. "Not having much luck."

"Perhaps I can help," the man offered. "What's their name?"

Draco hated intrusive people who felt the need to force their help upon unsuspecting strangers, but then he was also desperate. "Sadie. She runs a coffee shop. I just forget which town it's in. I've been travelling around, looking for her."

"You've been travelling town to town in search of a girl? Sounds like someone's a bit lovesick."

Draco laugh was much more bitter than the man had expected. "Something like that."

"Well, I have a cousin Sadie the next town over who runs a café, but she's a bit old for you." The man shrugged. "I'm sorry I can't help you."

"No, wait. What's she like? Sassy?"

The man chuckled. "She's more venomous than a rattlesnake. Lovely woman, though. Kind. She sees things that other people don't."

"What's this town called?"

* * *

><p>Sadie was training a new barista when Hermione walked in, visiting for the third time since she had arrived four days prior.<p>

"If you keep visiting like this, I'm going to start thinking you want your old job back," Sadie teased from behind the counter.

"No, thank you," Hermione laughed. "I have made enough decaf cappuccinos to last a lifetime."

Sadie smiled, preparing a cup of tea for Hermione and passing it to her. "So what brings you by here?"

"Oh, just not much to do. I've already finished all my work assignments for the week, and there isn't much to do in this town."

"Don't I know it," Sadie said. "I take it you've already wandered around the shops?"

"About four times."

"See anything interesting?"

"Not particularly. I visited the used book store, which is always nice." Hermione fell silent.

"Do you miss him?" Sadie asked.

"Who?"

The two women's eyes met briefly before Hermione felt too uncomfortable not to look away.

"You tell me," Sadie said softly.

Hermione forced out a laugh. "I'm fine as I am. I assume you were referring to Ron, as he is my husband and I am faithful to him. While it is definitely strange not to be with him, this will be good for us. I'm certain of it."

Sadie just stared at her.

"I know what you're doing," Hermione said. "You're trying to push me toward Draco again. But it isn't happening. Draco and I have gone our separate ways. I'm here, and he's at his manor. We lead separate lives now."

"Okay," Sadie said. "I'll leave it be. I just think you're making a mistake in completely giving up on Draco. He's a good person, despite it all. And he-"

"He nothing," Hermione snapped. "Sadie, don't. Yes, I had some feelings for Draco, but that's finished. I'm not with him. I'm with Ron."

Sadie sighed, pushed her chair back, and stood up. "Fine. Do what you want."

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked, outraged.

"I don't waste my time with lost causes," Sadie told her, "and I have a café to run."

"Fine," Hermione said, also standing. "I'll see you later."

Sadie watched Hermione as she walked out the café and down the street. It was true, Sadie thought, that she had been a bit harsh. It just hurt her to see someone she cared about throw her life away.

That is, after all, was what Hermione was doing. She wasn't happy with Ron. She was with him because she knew divorce would be messy, because she didn't want to hurt Ron, and because she knew it would make things uncomfortable for all their friends. Hermione was with Ron because it was the right thing for everyone else even though it wasn't the right thing for her. She was so stubborn in her selflessness that it was downright selfish.

Sadie grabbed a cloth and took to wiping down the tables, which had somehow become unbelievably dirty during her talk with Hermione. She then filled her time doing small jobs around the café, assisting the new employee, and chatting with customers.

She was in the office, preparing paperwork for taxes, when the new girl, Natalie, interrupted her. "Sadie?"

"What is it, Natalie?"

"There's a man here who says he wants his job back."

Sadie's curiosity was instantly aroused. "Describe him."

"Um, well, very posh accent. Extremely pale. Blonde. He has this air of… Well, I don't really know how to describe it…"

"Arrogance?"

"Yeah. That."

Sadie shook her head and followed Natalie back to the counter. Lo and behold, there stood Draco Malfoy.

"Follow me," Sadie said to him, leading them to a table.

"Not even a hello?" he asked.

"Why are you here?"

Draco glared at her for a second before responding. "No need to be rude, Sadie. I need my job back. Nobody in the wizarding world is about to hire me and I require a proper income."

"I thought your family was old money. Doesn't your bank account just refill automatically once you get down to one million galleons?"

"Not when you've entirely depleted the supply trying to buy back your good name," he grimaced.

Sadie snickered. "Sounds rough."

"I've struggled a lot less than an incredible amount of people," Draco said quietly. "This doesn't mean I haven't struggled at all."

Sadie stared at him for a second before speaking. She was weighing her options, and trying to decide what would be best for Draco and Hermione. Trying to decide if it was her place to get involved.

"So when can you start?"


End file.
